Zayne’s Wife

My name is actually Gwendoline, but it was already taken. Ironically, I've never met another Gwendoline in my entire life... Sus. 18/Leo/ENFJ/Omni/She-her but also a unicorn.

[vigilantekisser]

matt murdock and wife!reader who’s a college professor… he comes home from patrol at the asscrack of dawn lugging a certain sticky, injured, unconscious red-and-blue vigilante through the window. needing to take his mask off to check for head injuries and seeing that not only is spider-man just a kid, he’s one of your students from your tuesday-friday seminar 😭

[silostosstuff]

Emma Nolan, coming in overprepared

Emma Nolan, not showing off her knowledge but rather be open to learn

Emma Nolan, trying to stay calm during unexpected happenings

Emma Nolan, holding Louie's hand during the debrief

Emma Nolan, taking care of the SA victim and encouraging her to finish the rape kit

Emma Nolan, finding the kid of the water slide victim in minutes

Emma Nolan, getting up after being in a headlock and continue to finish her shift

Emma Nolan, reassuring Digby that his family will still recognise him

Emma Nolan, coming back to tell people about Ogilive

Emma Nolan, still smiling and being sweet to everyone she meets

Emma Nolan, guys

[gwynfahr]

Emma my love you're too good for this world ❤️

[trashshart]

betting pool

dr abbot x resident!reader

a drunken girls’ night out results in you being brought into the pitt. or, the pitt staff and their bets on what the hell is going on with their attending and resident.

cw: mdni 18+. will they/won’t they, are they/aren’t they? some outside povs. dubcon? for drunk sex & angry sex (it’s consensual but y’know). semipublic sex. unprotected piv, oral (f and m receiving), spit as lube. jack being mean. age gap (reader’s exact age mentioned once but you can ignore it). injuries and medical inaccuracies. a lil angst, a lil sap, a lil smut, a lotta nonsense. shout out to my jack girlies, dis one’s 4 u

wc: 5.5k

———

john shen was a good doctor—cool, calm, and collected in the face of chaos. he was a good guy—quick to stand up for someone, to be a shoulder to cry on, to offer an easy joke to lighten the mood. but the one thing john was above all else was curious—chismoso according to princess and perlah; a nosy bitch to parker.

so when john sees a frazzled whitaker rush into the ambulance bay doors just after 11pm and grab a wheelchair, it catches his attention.

the pitt was relatively q-word for a saturday night, just enough of a lull in the action to make his last hour smooth—mid shifts really are the best of both worlds.

stepping toward the ambulance bay, john was met by them whooshing open.

“dumbass vs bar! eta now!” a cackling santos announces. she was pushing you in the wheelchair whitaker had just taken, your left leg raised up in the footrest, ankle all purple and swollen. your mascara was running down your cheeks despite you cackling right along santos.

“wait, wait!” santos laughs, “drunk vs table top dancing!” that caused more cackling.

whitaker rushes back in then, two purses, two jackets, and one strappy heel in hand.

“and what do we have here?” john asks as he approaches the trio, whitaker frantically trying to get the girls to quiet.

“johnny boy!” you yell on his approach. “i fought gravity and lost!”

whitaker—seemingly deemed designated driver and therefore sober—clarifies nervously, “uh, 27 year old female presents with severe pain in left ankle after falling from…height—“

“i was dancing on the bar!”

“—ankle had rapid swelling and bruising in route. um, and she’s drunk.”

john looks back down at the r2 in the wheelchair—clearly either the adrenaline or your drunkenness has lessened the pain, you once again cackling with santos about some guy in a fedora you saw earlier.

“south 22 is open,” lena calls from the hub.

“alright, let’s get you guys back—“ john is cut off by two emts pushing in a gurney.

“who the hell parked their car in the bay!?” one shouts.

whitaker let’s out a quick shit! before shoving the items from his arms into john’s.

11:23pm and he now had the perfect case to leave abbot.

SHEN $50 THEY JUST FRICK NASTY

———

jack abbot first took real notice of you during your first stretch of night shifts as an ms4.

you were smart, easily keeping up with the intern you’d been assigned to. you were a team-player, willing to step in wherever needed, even if that led you to scut work or covered in bodily fluids. you were kind, volunteering to hold a toddler’s hand while they received stitches instead of clamoring to do them yourself.

and yeah, jack noticed that you were attractive, okay? objectively, clinically—not in any way he would ever entertain, let himself think twice about. that was until he caught a whiff of your perfume at a patient’s bedside.

it was barely there, like you’d put it on that morning hoping it’d wear off before shift. but it was enough. enough for him to catch the faint vanilla sweetness. enough to be familiar.

enough to remind him of the scent his wife used to wear.

———

bridget takes over wheeling you into the pitt, trinity stumbling in her own heeled boots behind you, now holding your bags and coats.

“so, you all havin’ a fun night?” bridget teases as you arrive.

“yeah! girls’ night out!” you reply, precariously hopping into the bed.

“wasn’t dr. whitaker with you two?”

trinity snorts plopping into the now empty wheelchair, “yeah. like she said, girls’ night out.” that sent you both back into your hysterics.

bridget just smiles with a shake of her head as she sets up for your iv, throwing a blanket over your legs for good measure. your short dress continues to inch up in your antics, no need to give the whole er a show—maybe just a certain doctor.

“just couldn’t stay away, could ya?” bridget asks, making quick work of your iv. a hushed ow, shit! escaping you.

before you could, trinity answers. “she wanted t’see her maaaans,” rolling foward.

that catches the nurse’s attention. “oh, her mans, huh?”

you answer with an exaggerated dreamy sigh, “yeah, hal ‘n i got somethin’ special.” hal, the 70 year old, part-time security guard stationed at the metal detectors. hal, who’s been married for 40 years…to a man.

that earns another snort from trinity, you following shortly. bridget wheels trinity out of the room with a heeey! from both drunken doctors.

BRIDGET $20 ACCIDENTAL PREGNANCY

———

trinity santos wasn’t nice. she was tough and sarcastic and brutally honest, quick with a witty response or teasing dig. trinity santos wasn’t nice, but, as much as she liked to deny it, trinity santos was kind.

she befriended you during her second year of residency.

charting at the hub toward the end of a night shift, trinity couldn’t help but notice your phone vibrating on the counter—again.

“you gonna get that?” trinity asked with raised brows.

not looking up from the computer, you replied, “it’s just my landlord. he’ll leave a message if it’s important.”

“your landlord calls you at 4 in the morning for unimportant things?”

after a beat, you rushed to answer your phone and began walking to the break room.

a while later you returned red eyed and jittery, but went back to your charting without a word. if you weren’t going to mention it, trinity wasn’t going to either.

as he came to return a tablet, dr. abbot also noticed your change in demeanor. “you good, kid?”

head jerking up, you plastered on an obviously forced smile, “yeah! just bad news from the landlord. i’ll be—“ your voice caught in your throat.

dr. abbot looked at you, head leaning forward as to tell you to continue.

letting out a shaky breath, you did, “my apartment building flooded and since i’m on the ground floor my unit is trashed and my landlord said there’s no way i can stay there after my shift and that he won’t know how long the repairs will take or if he’ll just break the lease while work is happening and my roommate said she’s gonna stay with her boyfriend but that there’s no extra room so now i’m just out on the curb and i’m freaking out a little—“

you continued to panic at the nurses station, dr. abbot patting at your shoulder as some form of comfort.

as trinity stood to check on a patient, she caught dennis’ eyes from across the hub.

trinity, we have a couch, they seemed to say.

no fucking way, huckleberry, i haven’t gotten rid of you yet, she willed her expression to reply.

c’mon, he gave with a disappointed tilt of his head.

rolling her eyes, trinity turned to you. “hey, huckleberry and i have a pull-out couch. you can crash with us.”

that’s how you became trinity’s second offering from the fourth year medical student distribution system, one she hoped wouldn’t become a foster-fail like the last.

you ended up staying for two months until you found a new place.

SANTOS $20 SHE MARRIES HIM FOR HIS VA BENEFITS THEN HE MYSTERIOUSLY CROAKS

———

jack abbot’s residents were smart. he made sure of it. only the best and brightest able to last under his tutaledge. his residents were smart, but god could they be idiots.

so seeing santos and whitaker after hours, one clearly drunk sitting in a wheelchair, both dressed like they were going out, he knew it couldn’t be good.

“what are you two doing here?” jack asks as he approaches the pair.

“just an little accident at—“ whitaker answers at the same time santos says, “bar fight,” rolling herself back and forth in the wheelchair.

jack looks between the two. neither look injured—one clearly intoxicated, but not injured.

as if reading his thoughts, santos clarifies. “we’re fine, dr. abbot,” a shit-eating grin slowly growing on her face, “can’t say the same for twinkle toes over there.” she nods her head toward south 22.

looking up at the board, jack sees your name: possible ankle break, iv fluids started.

letting out a huff, he calls over to the other r2 at the far end of the nurses station, “javadi, with me.”

———

the first time you fucked jack abbot was in a bar bathroom toward the end of your final year of medical school.

the day shift had gone out to celebrate dana’s birthday, joined by a few night shift friends not scheduled that evening—jack included. a night filled with drinking and stories and shots and celebration.

you sat at a table with dana, cassie, and jack, picking at some over-priced appetizer platter and listening to them recount stories of the birthday girl. you hadn’t expected to be invited out with your colleagues, but dana insisted that everyone was welcome, even wide-eyed ms4s.

and maybe you were edging a little past tipsy, maybe you were just deluding yourself, but you swore you could feel jack continue to lean closer to you, his focus shift more intently on you. maybe it was the fifth drink you’d seen him down that night, maybe it was the months of you following him around like a starstruck idiot, but you swore you saw his eyes flicker down to your mouth more than once.

trinity appeared then, hands full of unnaturally pink shots, squeezing next to you into the chair you already occupied. “for the birthday girl!” she cheered, raising a shot glass in one hand and handing dana another, “and co,” signaling for the table’s other occupants to take one as well.

coughing after shooting down what must have been strawberry scented nail polish remover, you looked to jack. his normally stoic face was twisted into a look of horror, causing you to burst out laughing. his gaze returned to you, the corners of his mouth twitching up—eyes once again darting to your mouth.

before thinking, you quickly stood and announced that you were running to the restroom, shooting jack a look over your shoulder as you walked away.

it took 27 seconds—you counted—for him to join you in the room, clicking the lock shut behind him.

it took another 14—again, you counted—before his mouth crashed into yours, all clacking teeth and bumping noses, desperate and drunk.

pushing you against the sink, jack moved sloppy kisses across your cheek, over your jaw, down your neck.

“y’changed your perfume,” he said nosing behind your ear. not a question, an observation.

as his mouth moved lower to your collarbone, you answered, “gotta couple diff’rent ones. you noticed?”

jack didn’t reply, just let out an mmm as he worked at the button of your pants, swiftly pulling them down, trapped at the ankle by your shoes.

kneeling in front of you, jack lifted your legs to rest over his shoulders before he dove into you. he was sloppy, uncoordinated, moving your panties to the side to lick into your cunt.

he added his fingers after only a moment, a strangled moan ripping from your mouth at the intrusion. he sucked at your clit as he scissored his thick fingers, attempting to prepare you for the stretch of him.

the mix of alcohol and blood rushing from your head had you dizzy, intoxicated in more ways than one.

satisfied with his work, jack stood between your legs, trapped ankles locking around his hips. you both fumbled at his belt, pulling his jeans down only low enough to free his cock—red and angry and leaking and thick.

you let out a shaky breath as jack spit into his hand, giving a few tugs at his length. he again pulled your panties to the side before bringing himself to your entrance.

the thick of his head breaching your walls ripped a loud moan from you, jack moving his free hand up to quickly cover your mouth.

“y’gotta stay quiet. can’t let ‘em know,” he grunted as he continued to slowly thrust into you.

nodding your head behind his hand, he released it, and you brought him in for another desperate kiss, hand fisted in his hair, tongue fighting for entrance to his mouth.

jack began thrusting into you in earnest then, the wet smack of skin on skin echoing in the small room. he moved his hand back to your swollen clit then, fingers moving expertly to bring you closer to your orgasm.

you trade moans and grunts into each other’s mouths, you keening loudly, too loudly, as you’re brought over the edge, walls spasming around his thick cock.

and he didn’t ask. and you didn’t remind him. so when jack’s orgasm hit him, he came buried deep inside your fluttering warmth, mouth pressed tight against your neck.

after a few moments, he pulled out of you, cum leaking from your cunt. slipping off your shoe to allow one leg to go free, jack stepped back to tuck himself back into his pants.

before he could move out of your reach, you grabbed at the hem of his shirt. mind suddenly devoid of everything you’d ever wanted to say to him, you just stared up at jack, willing him to read your thoughts, for him to say something first. instead, he stepped in and placed a lingering kiss to your forehead before exiting back into the bar.

returning to your seat at the table, you didn’t notice that jack had gone to sit at the bar with robby, downing two more drinks since he’d arrived. leaning your head against trinity’s shoulder, you didn’t notice the drunken smile on your lips—you didn’t notice the knowing expressions adorning cassie and dana’s faces. letting your eyes flutter shut, you didn’t notice jack’s cum dripping out of you.

DANA $10 THEY DANCE AROUND IT UNTIL IT’S TOO LATE :(

MCKAY $10 THEY HOOK UP 1.5 TIMES

———

sometimes victoria javadi still can’t believe she decided to match into emergency medicine. most days it’s great—interesting, thrilling, challenging. some days it’s terrible—tragic, depressing, stomach-turning. but every so often, it’s eye roll-inducing, scoff-worthy, second-hand embarrassing—tonight is one of those nights.

walking into south 22 with dr. abbot, she comes face to face with her fellow r2—though gone are the normal black scrubs and bare face, replaced with a tiny going-out dress and the remnants of eye makeup. you currently had the foot of your good leg in your lap, trying to undo the one strappy heel you still wore.

“vicky!” you exclaim with a smile seeing the doctors’ arrival. “help a comrade out?”

before victoria can, dr. abbot steps forward and makes quick work of the heel, setting it next to the discarded one on the chair next to your coat—weird.

tucking your good leg back under the blanket, dr. abbot asks—smiling? “you really did a number on yourself, huh?”

in lieu of a real answer, you grin and lift your injured leg into the air, letting out a ding!, the hospital blanket the only thing keeping you from flashing everyone—jesus, you must be drunk. that gets an actual laugh from dr. abbot—so weird.

you vaguely listen as victoria presents the case, going over the initial treatment plan—pain meds and x-rays—and future possibilities—ortho consult, surgery, resetting, casting—more interested in the other doctor in the room.

“hey there, handsome,” you say to dr. abbot after victoria finishes, drunken smile on your face.

victoria gasps, quickly whispering, “please don’t say that about our boss, oh my god.” she could not be a witness to your hr violation, couldn’t let yourself get fired.

“why not? jackie’s a catch!” you say looking from dr. abbot to victoria.

“yeah, i’m a catch,” dr. abbot mocks. “i get sweet discounts and get to park wherever i want.” he doesn’t seem upset by the comment, so victoria just excuses herself to call x-ray.

so weird.

JAVADI $5 NOTHING (HE’S OLD, YOU GUYS!)

———

michael robinavitch was a good friend, or least he tried to be. his therapist helping him learn to open up to his friends, and in turn, encouraging his friends to open up to him.

but when robby’s closest friend—his brother in arms, his partner in crime, the pain in his ass—drunk in the passenger seat of his truck on the way home from dana’s party, asked, “get ‘er a dose’a levonorgestrel in the mornin’ fer me, yeah?” robby didn’t know how good of a friend he wanted to be.

“what?” he asked, head snapping between jack and the road.

jack murmured out something that sounded a whole lot like your name, then, “the mornin’ af’er pill. getter a dose. ‘m sure she’ll get one, but jus’in case.”

robby was rendered speechless for the rest of the drive to jack’s.

as he fumbled to open the door with his keys, jack poked robby in the chest. “lev’norges’rel,” all he said before swiftly opening and closing the door in robby’s face.

the next morning, robby found you—his med student, for fuck’s sake—at your locker. pulling the brown pharmacy bag from his backpack, he sat it in the open door.

“what’s this?” you asked peering into the bag, the word levonorgestrel staring back at you.

you quickly crumple the bag closed, head whipping to robby, eyes wide. “what!?” you whisper shouted.

robby held his hands in front of him, palms open. “i’m just the messenger.”

“what did jack tell—“ you start, but are interrupted by robby waving his outstretched hands once, before placing them up to his ears as if to cover them if you try to speak.

“i don’t know anything. i don’t want to know anything,” he stated, turning on his heel to walk out of the hallway.

robby decided he was the greatest friend jack would ever know, and that he owed him big for this.

ROBBY $50 HE JUST PINES UNTIL HER RESIDENCY IS OVER

———

lena doesn’t love using the intercom to announce incoming traumas, not at night. with as many boarders in the pitt as there were anymore, the loud tone followed by a bodiless voice echoing the halls could be startling to those who’d actually manage to fall asleep. so when able, when she knew the current location of the attending, she would gladly walk to them to announce the incoming, giving even a moment of peace to the souls with them for the night.

typically when she found jack, he wasn’t hovering at the bedside of his pretty little resident.

jack has both hands on the bed’s side rail, leaning casually against the edge. he smirks down at you, face softer than lena had seen in a long time.

you were laying partially propped up in the bed, smiling up at jack with a big grin, speaking rapidly about something. the index finger of your hand closest to jack was fiddling with the draw string of his scrub pants—not sexual, not even flirtatious, but familiar, like maybe you didn’t even realize you were doing it.

what really did it for lena, though, was when you said something that caused jack to smile—an honest to god, open-mouthed, teeth-showing smile; that was the jack abbot equivalent of twirling his hair and giggling like a school girl.

lena couldn’t even bring herself to be mad she seemed to be out 15 bucks.

“they’re being weird, right?” dr. javadi says as she steps next to lena, tablet in hand. the young doctor looks legitimately concerned.

bumping her shoulder, lena just replies, “come on, kid.”

walking closer to the curtained room, jack notices the two approaching and quickly backs away, stoic expression returning. if he had noticed lena noticing them, he shows no indication.

“jack, we got a level 2 trauma incoming, 7 minutes out,” lena informs. “the v.i.p. will hafta make due with the resident.”

“yeah, v.i.p., learn your acronyms,” you mock as jack moves to leave, him shooting you a look as he does. you just grin big in return.

as dr. javadi makes work explaining your treatment—non-displaced ankle fracture, walking boot, no weight for a minimum of three weeks—lena adds, “dr. whitaker left to take dr. santos home. told him i’d tell you. said to call when you’re getting dispoed and he’d come back up.”

in reply, you give a small, “sounds good, queen,” the night finally catching up to you, sleep tugging at your eyes.

LENA $15 THEY GO ON ONE AWKWARD DATE

———

the second time you fucked jack abbot, it was on the hospital roof part way through your intern year.

ever since that night in the bar, things had changed between you and jack, grown tense. gone were the puppy dog eyes and good works, replaced by impatience and ever increasing criticisms.

“god! you are such a fucking prick, sometimes!” you screamed at him after reaching the roof. the pitt had grown too used to your spats with jack, but that night’s bout was especially hostile, shouldn’t be heard by hovering ears.

“and you’re a whiny fuckin’ brat when you don’t get your way!” he returned.

“i wasn’t whining, jack! i was advocating for my patient!”

the senior resident you’d been assigned to that shift hadn’t taken your proposed diagnosis seriously, said you were just a little intern hunting zebras. when his treatment plan led the patient to crash, you snapped. you seemed to release all the built-up frustration inside you, all the anger from months of being doubted by your attending. and yeah, maybe the resident shouldn’t have been on the receiving end of it, but your diagnosis was correct, and he did belittle you for it—your rage only pausing when jack stepped in with an enough! before leading you to the elevator.

“maybe so, but you’re sure as fuck are whining now,” jack said lowly, if not a little demeaning.

his tone snapped something deeper in you, giving a shove to his solid chest with a shout of “asshole!” you didn’t know why you did it, you were never a violent person. and though the push barely seemed to rock jack, it made his expression darken.

before you could open your mouth to apologize, jack pulled you in by the neck for a bruising kiss. pulling at each others hair and nipping at lips, he slammed your back against the brick wall of the roof, the hand cradling the back of your head the only softness from him.

“you’re such a mouthy fuckin’ brat,” he grunted into your mouth, tugging at his belt, “y’should put it to better use.”

it shouldn’t have turned you on, guys talking down to you like that usually didn’t, but god, something about it coming from jack made your thighs squeeze together.

dropping to your knees, you finish helping him out of his boxers, gripping the base of his leaking cock.

you placed sloppy open-mouthed kisses along his length as you stared back up at him, his brows furrowed and breaths coming harshly from his nose.

when your mouth finally wrapped around the tip, jack’s hand flew to your hair, grabbing it harshly. he set a steady rhythm with the grip on your hair, you hollowing your cheeks and letting him use your mouth to chase his pleasure.

one hand clawed into his firm asscheek, your other snaked down the front of your scrub pants, fingers attempting to give yourself some relief.

noticing the movements, jack yanked you off him forcefully, an involuntary whine leaving your throat.

hoisting you up, jack turned you to face into the brick wall, ripping your scrub bottoms down. he didn’t offer any prep that time, just glided his cock through your slick folds, gathering your wetness, before slamming into you.

you choked out a shout, or maybe a moan, back arching away from the man behind you, strong hands holding you in place.

pounding into you, jack let out only grunts, no words giving away whatever was going through his mind, what he was thinking.

your hands gripped desperately at the brick of the wall, searching for leverage, for something to hold. jack moved one hand from your hip to rest over the back of yours, fingers lacing together. another moment of softness, cut only by the bruising grip at your hip, the nipping at your neck, the slam of hips against yours.

resting your forehead against the back of his hand curled around yours, you once again reached the other between your legs, rubbing tight circles around your clit—this time, jack allows it.

moaning and panting and grunting, your paces quicken, grips tighten. you came with a sob, the head of jack’s cock hitting the perfect spot inside you, your fingers moving deftly between your thighs.

when jack pulled from you, he tugged at his length until he was coming against your ass, ropes of cum hot in the cool pennsylvania air.

his head dropped to your shoulder, your hand reaching to card through the hairs at the nape of his neck, each of you attempting to catch your breath.

for a moment it was peaceful—no shouting, no bickering, no digging critiques—just two people sharing pleasure.

jack pulled a wet wipe from one of his cargo pockets—a soldier’s always prepared, he used to joke—gently swiping it to clean his spend from you, before pulling your scrubs back up around your hips.

you wanted to say something again, as you did when this happened before, but jack just placed a large hand between your shoulder blades, fingers giving the slightest pressure to your skin, before turning and walking back into the hospital.

when the email came the next morning, stating your night shift rotation was ending early and you were to report back on days, you didn’t try to stop the tears from falling from your eyes.

———

it could have been minutes, but must have been hours, when you wake to jack shifting the hospital blanket further up your body.

“‘t time’s it?” you mumble, voice thick with sleep. “‘m i bein’ dispoed?”

“around 3, sweetheart,” he answers. “don’t worry about calling whitaker, robby’s heading in an hour early. i’ll drive you to yours to pack.”

“to pack?” you ask, only slightly more conscious.

“you live in a third story walk-up. if you’re plannin’ on leaving it for the next three weeks, you’ll have to stay somewhere else.”

“any ideas where?” you ask, eyes closing again.

jack just smoothes a hand down the top of your head and tells you to go back to sleep. for once, you listen.

———

the third time you fucked jack abbot is at the end of intern year.

after receiving the email all but banishing you to day shift months prior, you only caught glimpses of jack at turnover, all your future night shifts under shen as attending.

you looked for jack in the early hours of the day, hoping to catch him before he left, but he was always unavailable, preoccupied, gone.

he didn’t bicker or criticize anymore. he didn’t banter. he just ignored, he avoided. the silence that stretched between you two grew palpable, suffocating.

and finally you’d had enough.

it’d taken until then, that night, to work with jack again.

“why do you hate me?” you asked after cornering him in the staff parking lot after your shift, dawn settling over pittsburgh.

that gave jack pause. “excuse me?” he replied, looking at you with furrowed brows and squinted eyes, thick arms crossing over his chest.

the weight of jack’s stare was always heavy, intense, but this was nearly unbearable, drowning you in pools of hazel.

but you’d made the decision to confront him, needed to stand your ground. taking a shaky breath, mirroring his stance, you said again, “you heard me. why do you hate me?”

jack’s brow twitched minutely, a nearly imperceivable crack in his armor. he saw you mirror his stance, but your posture was vulnerable, your eyes sorrowful. it compelled him to start honestly, “i don’t hate you.”

that wasn’t what you were expecting—a dismissal, probably; a confirmation, maybe, but not that.

your stance shifted, weight rocking from one foot to the other, arms wrapping tighter around you. “then why—“ you started, looking away then seemingly forcing your gaze back to jack, steeling yourself.

speaking firmer, you continued, “we were fine until—until dana’s party and then things changed. you changed. not even oh-shit-i-screwed-my-med-student awkward changed—“

“lower your voice—“ jack said stepping forward. that wasn’t something he needed overheard.

“but you got…mean. cruel even. you criticized me harsher than everyone, like suddenly i lost all credibility—“

“that’s not—“

“—like i was suddenly an ms3 on her first day again, trying to impress everyone and feeling like an idiot every step of—“

“i was impressed by you as an ms3.”

“—the way and you’ve been so fucking—wait, what the fuck is that supposed mean?” you finally paused your rant, take aback by jack’s words, the intensity of his stare.

“you’ve always been impressive. and i’ve never hated you, that’s the problem. i let myself slip that night and—“ his hands moved to his hips, his head hanging to look at the ground instead of in your eyes, “and pushing you away with cruelty was easier than staying away in silence,” he finished, head moving to look off to the side.

“jack, what are you—“

his gaze shot back to yours, stepping closer, “but even with the cruelty you came closer, just as fiery, calling out my bullshit because you knew that’s exactly what it was. and that still didn’t fuckin’ stop my mind from slipping again.”

“jack—“

he pushed the heels of his palm into his eyes as he continued, “and now i’m all scrambled in my head and i can’t get myself to keep this up. i can’t fucking tell when i stopped chasing a ghost and started chasing you. i don’t know how to act around you anymore—“

“jack! what are you trying to say?” you had to interrupt him, had to, before your mind spun his words into something they weren’t, into something that lit a spark of hope in your chest.

“i lo—“ he blew out a breath, dropping his hands to his sides, “i like you. care about you. more than i should. not like an attending should a resident. not like a teacher should a student. like how a man cares for a woman, how—“

“have dinner with me.”

“what?”

now you took the step closer, eyes never leaving his. “have dinner with me. like a date.”

he tried turning away as he said, “honey, i’ve been so fucking bad to you—“ but you chased his gaze.

“then make it up to me. have dinner with me.”

and he did. and it goes great, how it should when a man cares for a woman.

he drove you home afterward. and he said yes when you invited him up, holding his hand, smile on your face. and he said yes when you asked him to come inside, fist in his hair, moan in your throat.

the first time jack abbot made love to you was after your first date.

———

six am comes quickly. a pain behind your eyes accompanies the pain in your ankle as you’re shuffled back into a wheelchair by bridget. jacket around your shoulders, booted ankle propped up in the footrest, you’re rolled through the ambulance bay doors once more.

the drive back to your apartment with jack is quiet, peaceful.

“you never answered my question, by the way,” you say, turning to look at him.

“you asked a whole lotta questions last night, baby. gonna have to be more specific,” he says, a hint of humor in his voice.

rolling your eyes and hitting his arm with the back of your hand, you answer, “the one where i asked where i was supposed to stay.”

glancing to you, he smirks, “you’re stayin’ with me ‘til you’re at least able to put weight on that ankle.”

“hmm, just ‘til then?” you ask playfully.

jack just looks back to the road, reaching to curl your hand in his and giving the back of it a kiss, fighting the smile tugging at his lips.

———

dennis whitaker was raised to believe that honesty was the best policy; that lies were sinful and would only lead to ruin, that truth would lead to blessings. but growing older, growing beyond his small nebraska town, dennis grew to know that a white lie to spare someone’s feelings was better than brutal honesty just for honesty’s sake.

maybe that’s why he kept the betting pool a secret from you for so long.

you may have thought it uncomfortable, inappropriate even, if you found out the way your coworkers had bet on whatever the hell was going on with you and dr. abbot. he thought maybe it was a kindness to spare you the theories and guesses regarding your personal life. and maybe he would have never mentioned it, had your attitude toward dr. abbot not again changed recently.

disagreements and debates had replaced curiosity and longing glances over year ago, but now, palpable tension and suppressed smiles where the norm between you too.

“there’s a betting pool, y’know?” dennis asked out of the blue one afternoon.

you turned from your charting, “there usually is. what’s this one on?”

dennis shook his head. “no, there’s a secret betting pool. on you…and dr. abbot,” he ended in a whisper, hoping no one heard him spill the beans.

your face lit up in amusement at that, “oh, is there now? what’re people saying?”

“i don’t think you wanna know.”

you huffed a laugh at his seriousness. “well, then what was your bet? maybe i could help ya win some money, denny.”

dennis just shook his head, “sorry, no influencing. it wouldn’t be fair.”

dennis whitaker was an honest guy. and maybe that honesty helped bless him a whole lot of money.

WHITAKER $20 THEY FALL IN LOVE

———

jack abbot wasn’t a religious man, not anymore. but he liked to think his wife was still out there, somewhere peaceful, watching out for him. maybe she had sent him a gift—someone new to love, and to love him in return. someone who held him accountable, called him on his bullshit. someone warm. someone sent wrapped in the scent of sweet vanilla.

———

if you caught it yes that was indeed a white chicks quote hehehe

[sapiensecrets]

f*ck, marry, kill - dennis whitaker x f!reader

summary: you wind up in the emergency room on halloween with the hottest doctor you've ever seen treating you. dennis thanks god that he decided to pick up a shift today.

pairings: dennis whitaker x reader cw/tags: no use of y/n, pre-relationship, broken bones, pain meds (morphine), nausea and anti-emetics (zofran). swearing, everyone in the pitt being nosey as fuck, reader is described as having cleavage and wearing heels + a teeny tiny halloween costume and makeup. mentions of drinking. inappropriate workplace conduct (when is there not in my writing) including discussion of a patient (reader) being attractive. word count: 5.1k masterlist requested here and based off me breaking my own ankle on halloween this year lmao except my friends were unsuccessful in convincing me to go to the ER :)

You genuinely don’t think there’s anything more embarrassing than ending up in the emergency department after twisting your ankle in the platform heels you insisted you would be able to walk in. 

Except, what is more embarrassing, is the fact that you’re not just in heels—you’re in a full-blown, tight, revealing Halloween costume. And you hadn’t even started drinking yet. 

“Okay, I’m gonna’ try to find a wheelchair, just sit,” Your friend says, ducking out from under your arm, letting you rest your palm against a nearby column. Your other friend is still holding you up on the other side, one arm around your waist. 

“This is stupid,” You say. “It’s not broken.”

“It might be,” Your friend says. “How would you know?”

“Because I can walk,” You counter. “Do you really think I’d be able to walk on a broken ankle?”

“You can barely walk,” She corrects. “Hence the wheelchair.”

“I don’t need the wheelchair,” You grumble, setting your injured foot down on the ground, clenching your teeth as sharp pain radiates up your leg. Your friend rolls her eyes, acting as though she didn’t notice as you shuffle away from her. “See? Walking.”

“I’ve seen babies crawl faster than that,” She says. “Just see what they say, okay? If it’s not broken then all the better.”

Your other friend comes around a corner with someone in tow, pushing a wheelchair. She’s young, wearing grey scrubs, and her hair’s pulled back into two braids with a few curls framing her face. Your friend doesn’t need to point her in the right direction, because your outfits make it more than obvious that you came together. 

“This is Emma,” Your friend says. “She’s a nurse.”

“Hi, Emma,” You greet, introducing yourself to her after. She repeats your name, then gestures to the wheelchair. 

“Come on, we’ll get you taken back,” She says, helping you into the chair. She lifts one of the sides up, elevating your left leg so it’s level with your hips. 

“Isn’t it a really bad sign to be taken back right away in an ER?” You ask. 

“Oh, no, well…sometimes,” Emma says. “But your friend was telling me how you injured your ankle, and we just want to take a quick look. Can one of you grab a clipboard from registration, please?”

Your friends nod, and one of them steps over to the line, getting left behind as you’re wheeled through the double doors. 

“Who do we have here?” A blonde woman, also wearing grey, asks, coming around the desk towards you. 

Emma says your name and age before continuing. “Twisting injury on an uneven curb, unable to visualize the area, her friend wasn’t sure if she hit her head when she fell—she was walking behind them.”

“I did not hit my head,” You say. “I don’t…think.”

The blonde woman, whose name tag reads ‘Dana,’ chuckles. “Alright, that’s a one way ticket to a room, sweetheart.”

“What?” You ask. “No, there has to be other people that need to be seen before I do.”

“There are,” She agrees. “Emma’ll take a look first, see what we’re working with. Sound okay?”

You nod, not really in a place to argue. Plus, you’re pretty sure Dana isn’t exactly the type to lose a fight. 

“Take her to four,” Dana instructs. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

Emma nods, pushing you towards the right place. It’s not exactly a room, just a bed surrounded by curtains. She helps you onto the bed, sitting the back up so you can lean against it. 

“Can you tell me your full name?” Emma asks, which you do. “What about the date?”

“October thirty-first, twenty-twenty five,” You answer. 

“Do you know where you are?”

“PTMC,” You say, rolling your eyes when your friend gives you a thumbs up. 

“Do you remember falling?” She continues, hands hovering over your boot, trying to figure out if she can get it off without hurting you further or using scissors. 

“Yeah, I mean, mostly,” You say. 

She nods, coming back over to you, pulling something out of her pocket. “I’m just gonna’ shine something in your eyes, okay? Look straight ahead.”

You listen, doing your best not to flinch when the light hits your eye. She tucks it away, setting two fingers in both of your hands. 

“Squeeze my fingers,” She instructs. “Does your head hurt? Any nausea?”

You shrug. “A little nausea.”

“How’s it going in here?” Dana asks, pulling the curtain aside as she comes in, closing it behind her. 

“Pupils equal and reactive, normal motor function, minor nausea,” Emma explains. “I was just about to try and take her boots off.”

Dana hums. “They’re tight, might have to cut the left one off.”

You gasp. “What? No, they were expensive. I can do it.”

“We don’t want anything making it worse, hon,” Dana says, giving you a sympathetic smile. “Give it a shot, see what we’re working with.”

Emma nods, fingers careful as she unzips the boot as far as she can, pulling the edges back. She frowns once she can actually see your ankle, which is already swollen and likely starting to bruise. 

“Let me know if it hurts, okay?” She says, and you nod, ready to brave through any pain just so they won’t cut it off. She braces the bottom of your foot, up by your toes, then starts to slide the back half off your heel. All plans to suck it up go out the window the second it starts to move. 

“Ow, fuck, sorry,” You say, face wrenched with pain, hands curled into the mattress. She stops immediately, glancing at Dana, who takes her place. Emma continues bracing, and Dana actually manages to move it a smidge more before the searing pain returns. 

“No, no, just cut it, please,” You say. “I should’ve listened in the first place.”

“I liked the optimism,” Dana says, carefully setting your foot back on the bed. Emma grabs a pair of scissors from a drawer, slicing across the material, each snip ringing out in the quiet room. They peel the remains off, then your sock, revealing the injury in it’s entirety. 

“Should’ve painted your toenails,” Your friend says. 

You laugh, then wince when your foot shifts. “Didn’t know they’d be on display.”

“I’m gonna’ touch a few spots, let me know if it hurts,” Emma says, raising a gloved finger to your ankle, pressing lightly. You groan, clutching the sheets. Every spot hurts, two of them more than the others, and then she grips slightly higher on your calf, squeezing. 

“Jesus christ,” You grunt, leaning forward, a wave of nausea hitting with the pain. Your face twists, and Emma lets go. 

“Sorry, sorry,” She says. “You okay?”

You give a thumbs up, slightly hunched, taking deep breaths. 

“Still confident it’s not broken?” Your friend asks. 

You manage to say the name of your other friend, followed by ‘go find her.’ She listens, leaving you alone with the two nurses. The pain subsides after a few moments, and you sit back up, exhaling. 

“Please tell me we won’t have to do that again,” You say. 

“Hopefully not,” Dana promises. “You definitely need an x-ray, and let someone know if your nausea gets worse, alright? Emma’s gonna’ set you up with some ice and an IV, and I’m gonna’ go find someone to sign off on pain meds.”

“Okay, sounds good,” You say. “Thank you.”

Princess is standing outside your room, hidden by the curtain, leaning against the wall. Dana raises an eyebrow as she comes out, gesturing for her to go ahead with whatever she wants to say. 

“She’s gorgeous,” Princess says, keeping her voice down. “Is she a model?”

“Not sure,” Dana says, scanning the department, trying to find a free doctor. “Could be.”

“What’s she here for?” 

“Broken ankle,” She says, finally seeing Dennis come out of a room, calling his name before he can take a seat at one of the computers. “Need you for a minute.”

She meets him halfway, grabbing a tablet from the stand, pulling up your chart and passing it to him. 

“Twisted her ankle, bimalleolar tenderness, positive squeeze test,” She explains. “She needs some pain meds, x-ray’s already been ordered.”

He nods, looking at your name in the top left corner. “I’ll take a look in a minute.”

“Thank you,” She says, patting his shoulder as she walks off. Princess steps in front of Dennis, wiggling her eyebrows. 

“What?” He asks, wearily. 

“She’s pretty,” She says. 

“Who?” 

“Your new patient,” Princess clarifies. “Thought you might want a heads up.”

Dennis huffs, nodding, stepping around her. “Thanks for letting me know.”

Emma stays with you after Dana leaves. “You want a blanket?”

You glance down at your outfit, then towards the now open curtain. “Yes, please.”

She grabs one, draping it over you, leaving your arm exposed. She sets up your vitals, then gets the IV first try, hanging a bag of fluids on the nearby hook. 

“How’s your nausea?” She asks. “Any worse?”

You think for a second. “A little worse, but still okay.”

The curtain is pulled back again, revealing a man in black scrubs with blonde curls and blue eyes. Emma gives him a small smile, stepping away from your bed so she doesn’t get in the way. You feel your heart start to race, hoping that he doesn’t notice on the screen displaying your pulse behind you. He says your name as he walks in, and then he pauses for a fraction of a second. 

‘Pretty’ is an understatement. You’re stunning. 

He has to make a conscious effort not to look at your chest, which is exposed in the tiny costume you’re wearing, but he recovers quickly, tapping his badge against the sensor at the computer. 

“I’m Dr. Whitaker,” He introduces. “I hear we’ve got quite the ankle injury.”

“You could say that,” You say, grimacing as you shift up on the bed, trying to get comfortable. He scans your triage note, then looks at Emma.

“Neuro exam okay?” He asks, and she nods. 

“Completely normal besides a little nausea,” She explains. 

“No headache or dizziness?” He confirms, the question now directed at you. You shake your head. “Have you had any alcohol today?”

“No,” You say. “Didn’t exactly get that far.”

There’s a pause before you speak again, only filled by the sound of him typing. 

“Why, are you offering?”

Emma averts her eyes, grabbing a new pair of gloves, trying to seem busy. Dennis pauses, keeping his head forward, hoping that his cheeks and ears haven’t gone as red as they feel. Langdon can’t help but glance in as he passes by, having overheard the comment. His eyes widen when he sees you, and he quickly moves on to his patient’s room. 

“They already made last call,” Dennis says, trying to joke a little. “Best I can do is some pain meds.”

“Damn, I was hoping not all my Halloween plans were ruined,” You say. “But I’ll definitely take pain meds.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” He says, offering you a quick, small smile. “Do you have any drug allergies or kidney problems?”

“Nope.”

He nods, stepping back from the computer, looking at Emma. “Two of morphine, twenty of ketorolac. Let’s keep her NPO for now.”

“Yeah, on it.”

She leaves the room. Dennis gestures to your leg, which is under the blanket. 

“Mind if I take a look?” He asks. 

You smirk, your eyebrows raising suggestively. “Please.”

He swallows, trying to get his heart to stop pounding. There’s no way you’re flirting with him, right?

He lifts the blanket up, folding it back and setting it on your thighs. He avoids touching the pressure points, knowing how painful it would’ve been the first time, instead holding just below your knee as he tilts your leg to either side. It doesn’t matter though—you still wince, inhaling sharply. 

“Sorry,” He says, softly, trying to move slower. The bruising is bad, but the swelling is worse now that your boot has been off for a bit. 

“Tripped on a curb, hey?” He asks, putting the blanket back over once he’s done. 

You groan, leaning back against the bed. “Yeah, like an idiot.”

“Happens to the best of us,” He says, pulling a stool over, sitting down. He points to where your boots are sitting on the floor. “Those the heels?”

“Sure are,” You say. “What’s left of them, anyway.”

He leans over, getting a closer look, seeing how the left one has been completely mangled. He also sees how tall they are, and he clenches his jaw, trying not to think about how good they must've looked when they were on. 

“At least you’re having a better day than they are,” He says. 

You laugh. “Yeah, just wish I could’ve actually gotten some use out of them. They really tied the whole costume together.”

“What was the costume?” He asks, looking you over, having a few guesses in mind, but not wanting to be wrong.

“It makes more sense when my friends are with me,” You say, looking up at him through your lashes, folding your arms over your chest, exposing more of your cleavage. “You know the game ‘fuck, marry, kill?’”

“Uh, yeah, yes,” He says, stuttering. 

“We’re that,” You say. “You wanna’ guess which one I am?”

He blinks. 

“I probably shouldn’t,” He says, but he knows the answer. Your costume is blood red, and you have lipstick marks trailing up your neck and on your cheeks. He doesn’t want to think about who put them on you. 

You hum. “Then I guess you’ll live in mystery.”

He looks back at you, crossing his arms, trying to move on without showing how flustered you've made him. “Emma should be back with those meds soon, and then we’ll reassess once you get some imaging done. Sound okay?”

“As long as you come back,” You say, not missing a beat. He laughs a little, bringing one hand up to the back of his neck. 

“I will,” He says, checking his watch. “Still got an hour left, and x-ray should be here any minute.”

“Looking forward to it, Dr. Whitaker.”

Dana overhears that, making her smirk, especially when Dennis comes out of your room a second later, redder than she’s ever seen him. He clears his throat as he walks over, stopping on the other side of the desk. 

“She’s all good for now,” He says. “Got her some pain meds, let me know when the films are up.”

“Will do,” She says. “You alright? You’re a little flushed, kid.”

He nods, clearing his throat again, already walking away to avoid further questions. She laughs to herself, shaking her head. Princess leans over from her spot. 

“I tried to warn him,” She says. 

“About what?” Dana asks. 

“That she was pretty,” Princess says. 

Dana scoffs, still smiling. “I don’t think that was the issue.”

“Oh?”

“She was flirting with him,” Dana says. “Said she was ‘looking forward’ to him coming back once her x-rays were done.”

“No!” Princess exclaims, making eye contact with Perlah, who’s now listening intently. “Seriously?”

“Yep,” Dana confirms. “Can you grab repeat vitals for twelve?”

“Okay, pain meds are in, and x-ray is on their way,” Emma says, standing beside you, a new pair of gloves on now that she’s finished administering the medication. “You’ll have to change into a gown, do you want help?”

You don’t, but you’re pretty sure you won’t be able to do it on your own. 

“Please,” You say, an apologetic look on your face. “I’m so sorry.”

“For what?” Emma asks, incredulous. “Trust me, you are, like, the easiest patient I’ve had all day.”

She closes the curtain before helping you, folding the tiny two-piece set that you were wearing and placing it in a large bag. She puts your boots in there too, despite the fact that one of them is in multiple pieces. 

The curtain opens again, making both of you look up. The person looks up from her tablet, stopping in her tracks, eyes widening. 

“You are not my patient,” She says, glancing at the tablet again, eyes narrowing. “Ah, they moved him to fifteen. Sorry for barging in.”

“No problem,” You say. “Hope you find your patient.”

“Thanks,” She says. “Everything good in here, Emma?”

“Yep, just waiting on x-ray,” She says. “Thanks, Dr. Santos.”

She nods, then turns around, speed-walking away from your room. Once she’s done with her real patient she practically tosses her tablet onto a desk as she walks by, coming up behind Victoria and grabbing her arm. 

“Have you seen the patient in four?” She asks. 

“Uhm, no, why?” She questions, still walking, despite the hold that Trinity has on her. 

“She might be the hottest person I’ve ever seen in my life,” Trinity says. Victoria laughs in disbelief, stopping at a computer, pressing her badge to the scanner.

“What?” She questions. “That’s…not professional.”

“I didn’t say it to her face,” Trinity counters. “Go look, tell me you don’t agree.”

“I’m busy!” Victoria exclaims, pulling up a chart. “What’s she here for?”

“I dunno’, she’s not my patient. Check.”

Victoria scrolls through the dashboard until she sees your bed number, scanning across to the chief complaint. “LEI.”

Trinity laughs a little. “Probably had a bit too much to drink.”

“Who are we talking about?” Dennis asks, logging on to a nearby computer. 

“Patient in four,” Trinity says. 

“Oh, she’s mine,” He says. “X-ray just came back, did you see her?”

“Did she ever,” Victoria mumbles. 

“Briefly,” Trinity says. “You talked to her already?”

“Uh, yeah,” He says, bringing your chart up. “Why?”

“No reason.”

“Santos thinks she’s hot,” Victoria says, earning a glare from the resident. “Do you agree?”

Dennis frowns, pulling up your x-ray, not actually looking at it yet. “She’s a patient.”

“Oh, come on, she’ll never know,” Trinity says. 

He shrugs, fiddling with the mouse. “It doesn’t matter—she’s a patient.”

“Okay, I need to see for myself,” Victoria decides, walking away from them. She slows down once she’s outside of your room, looking through the gap between the curtain and the wall. She continues on after a moment, then loops around, coming back over. 

“Oh my god,” She says. 

“Right?” Trinity says. “She’s insane.”

“That’s…that’s ridiculous,” Victoria says. “Wow.”

Dennis shakes his head, returning his attention to your images. He sucks in through his teeth, almost wincing at the sight. Trinity looks over, grimacing. 

“Oh, ouch,” She says. “That’s rough.”

Robby stops as he walks by, eyes narrowing, automatically reaching up to put his glasses on. 

“Bimalleolar fracture,” He comments. “Who’s this for?”

“Four,” Dennis answers. “Tripped on a curb in heels.”

“Tell me someone’s given her some pain meds,” Robby says. 

“Yeah, I ordered two of morphine and twenty of ketorolac,” He says. “Almost an hour ago.”

“What’s your plan?” Robby asks, leaning back, putting his glasses in his pocket. 

“A splint, page ortho,” He answers. “More meds.”

Robby nods, giving him the permission he needs to log off and head towards your room. He can’t hear anything as he walks over, and he pulls the curtain back to reveal Emma standing at the computer, and you—

Well, you’re still stunning—despite the hospital gown and half-lidded eyes. You’re slightly curled onto your right side, both hands tucked beneath your head. Your makeup is still sharp, eyelashes coated in mascara and a wing of eyeliner flicking out towards your temple. Your eyelids are glittery, and, even though you’ve been laying in a hospital bed for an hour, your hair looks amazing. 

Dennis says your name, making you fully open your eyes, turning towards him. 

“Hey,” He says. “How’re you doing?”

You blink a few times, sitting up. Emma comes over to adjust your bed. 

“I’m okay,” You say, voice slightly rasped. He sees the way you wince when you move, and how your face is tight with discomfort. 

“How’s your pain, scale of one to ten?” He asks, sitting on the stool beside your bed. “One being barely noticeable, ten being the worst pain you’ve ever felt.”

You shrug. “Uhm, maybe a five? Six?”

He frowns. “Still hurts pretty bad, huh?”

You swallow, blinking a few times, nodding. “Yeah.”

“Any changes since I’ve been gone?” He asks. “Dizziness, more nausea, confusion?”

“Still a little nauseous, maybe?” You say, finding yourself not wanting to admit that to your unreasonably attractive physician. “But it’s better now that you’re back.”

“Oh, uh, well, that’s great,” He says, tripping over the words. Emma looks out of your room, noticing a few people congregating by the desk across the department, watching the interaction closely. Princess and Perlah are murmuring to each other, whereas Jesse and Frank are just staring as Dennis’ face starts to burn again. “I can give you an anti-nausea medication too.”

“Can’t you just stay?” You ask. “I really feel a lot better when you’re around, Dr. Whitaker.”

Emma bites her lips, looking down at the floor, mumbling something about another patient before walking away. Dennis opens his mouth, then closes it, trying to think of what he could possibly say right now. 

“I, uhm, I would if I could,” He finally says. “But you’re here on one of our busiest days of the year, so-”

“Right, everyone seems very busy,” You interrupt, gesturing to the group staring at the two of you. He turns around, watching them scatter like animals the second his eyes are on them, desperately searching for a task to do. Dennis hums, nodding. 

“They might not be, but I have other patients,” He says. 

You put on an exaggerated frown. “Consider me jealous.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Trust me, you have no reason to be jealous.”

You cock your head to the side, already starting to grin, eyebrows raising. He realizes how that sounds, and even though it’s true, that’s not exactly what he meant.

“Because some of them are a lot worse off than you,” He clarifies, and he hears someone laugh at the terrible excuse for his accidental flirting as they walk by. “I am gonna’ have Emma give you some more pain meds and some Zofran, which will help with the nausea, uh…until I get back.”

“Thank you,” You say, slightly more serious now. “See you soon?”

He nods. “Yeah, of course.”

Perlah grins when he gets back to the hub. “She’s laying it on pretty thick, huh?”

“Oh, no, I don’t think so,” He counters. “She’s just nice.”

“That’s not what nice sounds like,” Frank adds. “She’s into you, man.”

Dennis logs on to one of the computers, inputting your new orders. “I mean, even if she was, she’s a patient, so it doesn’t matter.”

“Won’t be your patient forever,” Princess says. “And she’s been flirting since before you gave her any meds, so, not like she wasn’t in a sound state.”

“Who’s flirting?” Robby questions, and everyone goes silent, averting their eyes. 

“No one,” Dennis says, forcing a smile onto his face. 

“The patient in four is super into Huckleberry,” Trinity says, making Robby raise an eyebrow, taking his glasses off and tucking them into his pocket. 

“That so?” He asks, making Dennis shake his head. 

“No, it’s not,” He says. “She’s just friendly.”

“And very attractive,” Trinity adds. 

“Okay, alright,” Robby says. “Let’s stay professional.”

“Please,” Dennis mumbles. 

You lose track of how many people ‘walk’ past your room over the next ten minutes. Some of them are genuinely just moving by, not even glancing in your general direction, usually holding a tablet or medications of some kind. Others are obviously slowing down, looking at you for a second, a few even doing a double or triple take. Dana comes over and pulls your curtain closed, giving you a smile as she does. You hear her say something along the lines of ‘this isn’t a zoo’ as she walks away, which makes you laugh to yourself. 

“He’s still red,” Someone says from somewhere outside. “She’s killing him.”

“I’d be red too if she was talking to me like that,” Another one says. “How long before he comes up with an excuse to talk to her again, ‘you think?”

“Ten minutes, tops,” The original voice says. 

“She knows exactly what she’s doing,” A third person adds. “But she seems sweet.”

“She’s so sweet,” Emma agrees, finally someone you recognize. “Keeps apologizing for everything, I wish all my patients were like her.”

“Those for her?” The second voice asks, and you assume Emma nods before walking towards your room. 

Her face pops up a moment later, a sweet smile on her face, which you return. “Hey, how’s it going in here?”

“Good, minus the pain,” You say. 

“This should help,” She says, holding up the vials in her hands before setting them down on a tray, pulling a pair of gloves on. “More morphine, and some Zofran for the nausea. Dr. Whitaker should be in to talk about your x-ray soon.”

“Is it bad?” You ask, already knowing the answer. 

She gives you another smile, inserting the first medication into your IV bag. “He’ll go over everything once he’s got a second.”

He comes back once his face is no longer obviously red.

“I took a look at your x-rays,” He says. “You did a number on your ankle.”

You sigh, nodding. “Yeah, figured as much when I got morphine within ten minutes of showing up.”

“That’s usually not a great sign, unfortunately,” He confirms. “You came in with some friends?”

“Oh, yeah, but I told them to go,” You explain. “We were on our way to meet up with some other people, figured there was no need for them to miss out.”

He hums. “Very generous.”

“What can I say?” You tease, leaning back, closing your eyes for a second. “Not as generous as you, I’m sure, but I do my best.”

“What makes you say that?” He asks, smiling.

You scoff, incredulous. “You’re working in an emergency room on Halloween, feels pretty generous to me.”

He sets his hands on the guardrail on the side of your bed, leaning over a bit. “Do I get extra points since I wasn’t actually scheduled today?”

“Maybe,” You say. “Then why are you here?”

“One of my colleagues asked to swap,” He explains. “Wanted to hangout with her sister tonight.”

“Very noble,” You say. “Definitely worthy of extra points—not that you needed them, though.”

He smiles a bit. “Good to know.”

He lets you know that you’ll probably need surgery, but that ortho will have to come down and check it out, which might be awhile. In the meantime, they’ll try and keep your pain managed and set you up with a splint. Emma comes back when your IV pump starts to beep, adjusting a few things to fix it. 

“Is there someone I can call?” Dennis asks. “To come keep you company?”

“No, uh, I’m good,” You say, checking your phone quickly. “Your shift’s over, right?”

He smiles, not believing that you actually remembered that. 

“Yeah, technically,” He says. “Do you need anything else?”

“I don’t wanna’ keep you,” You say, but you definitely don’t mean it. “I’m sure whoever’s here to take your place won’t let me die.”

He laughs a little. “I would hope not.”

“Probably won’t be as handsome, though,” You say. Dennis blinks, the comment cementing the fact that you have been flirting, and he stutters for a second. Luckily, Emma steps in for him, putting a hand on your shoulder. 

“Between us,” She says. “The night shift is a pretty attractive crew, he’s got some competition.”

That makes you smile, genuinely, and Dennis honestly feels like he might pass out with how fast his heart is beating. 

“Where’s Whitaker?” Jack asks, taking in the group by the desk, eager to go through handover and get home. Robby looks around, not seeing him. 

“He went to see a patient a few minutes ago,” He says. “He’s probably still in there.”

“Which room?” 

“Four, I think,” Robby says. Princess and Perlah turn to eachother, saying something in Tagalog. Trinity nudges Victoria, and Dana smiles. 

“I don’t know if you’d be able to pry that case from his cold, dead hands,” Dana says. 

“What?” Jack asks. “Why?”

“She’s been flirting with him since she got here,” Frank says. 

“That so?” Jack questions, turning towards the room, seeing the curtain completely drawn, blocking you and him from view. “You think he’s interested?”

“I think anyone would be interested,” Trinity says. Jack raises an eyebrow, and she shrugs. “See for yourself.”

He chuckles, grabbing a tablet and walking over to the curtain, adjusting his stethoscope around his neck. 

“Knock knock,” He says, seeing Whitaker still beside you, and Emma adjusting your IV. You look up, but your eyes are hazy from the morphine, a small smile on your face. Dennis sits up straighter, pushing himself to his feet. “I’m Dr. Abbot, you can call me Jack. I’ll be taking over for Dr. Whitaker here. Catch me up?”

Dennis says your full name and age. “Bimalleolar fractures to the left ankle from a twisting injury, waiting for ortho consult. Pain was a six out of ten about fifteen minutes ago, gave two more of morphine and four of Zofran for nausea.”

“Perfect,” Jack says. “How’s your pain now?”

“Better,” You say. “A three, maybe.”

“And the nausea?”

You raise a hand, tilting it from side to side, clearly a little out of it now that there’s more morphine in your system. “Not great.”

Jack smiles, understanding why anyone would be interested in you. 

“We’ll see what we can do about that,” He says. “Ready to finish up, Whitaker?”

“Uh, yeah, absolutely,” Dennis says. 

“Wait,” You say, eyes widening. “Does that mean it’s no longer…unethical for him to go on a date with me?”

Emma smiles, and Jack looks to Dennis, amused. He turns to you, patting the guardrail beside you. 

“You’re on a lot of meds right now,” He says, gently. “Probably not the best time to make a decision like that.”

You squint, his words sort of a rejection, but his tone suggesting that it wasn’t one. 

“Tell you what,” Jack says, gaining both your attention. “If you’re still interested by the time those meds ease up, and once you’re no longer a patient of ours…I’ll pass the message along.”

Dennis’ face is a combination of grateful and mortified. 

“I’ll be interested, don’t worry,” You say, leaning back into the mattress. “Hopefully I’ll see you again, Dr. Whitaker.”

“Dennis,” He corrects. 

You smile, nodding, watching as he goes to leave. You call his name after a moment, making him turn around again.

"There's no competition, by the way," You say, subtly glancing towards Jack. He raps his knuckles against the wall of your room, nodding before actually leaving.

Jack gives him your number two days later.

A/N - this is scheduled so if u see it right away im not actually here...i took an insane exam today, my ex texted me yesterday and now i’m going on a first date with someone in an hour help me. talk to u all later thank u for reading <3

tags:

@thenormreedus @sinoxima @serrendiipty @celiaisacaterpillar @xoxoloverb  @momdancingtomcr @arianna-r13 @starsbymars @outpostsworld @he6rtshaker  @ilocuras24 @hucklesbaby @laurenyas @true1411 @navs-bhat  @amelia-styles @barnes70stark @huang-the-geek @groundzerospitfire @bubiblossom

[fluentmoviequoter]

Checkmate

Michael Holt (Mr. Terrific) x fem!fiancée!reader

Your fiancé teaches you how to play chess, persisting through interruptions, distractions, and unwelcome invasions into your private life.

fluff, Guy slander, Superman and Terrific are besties, 1.7k+ words, requested

Masterlist | DC Masterlist | Request Info

“Okay,” you murmur, tapping your legs beneath the table. “So, then I could… defend with my knight to capture your pawn with my rook?”

“Close,” Michael replies softly, his chin on your shoulder. “If you move your knight toward my pawn, I could capture with my bishop.”

You hum, leaning back against your fiancé as you look at the board. It’s been less than an hour since he started teaching you to play, and you credit his closeness as the reason you’re picking anything up. It’s easy to focus here, you realized quickly.

“What if I defend with my queen instead?” you ask.

“Perfect,” he replies, punctuated by a kiss to your shoulder. “C3 or another square?”

“I don’t know what they’re called.”

“I told you.”

“Yeah, while you were playing with my hair.” Turning your chin toward your shoulder, you meet Michael’s eyes and defend, “I can only focus on so many things.”

Michael scoffs, his fingers pressing against your waist. “You’re learning chess. That is what you should be focusing on.”

“I’ve been learning for an hour,” you remind him. “And my remarkable fiancé all but manhandled me into his lap five minutes into the lesson. Give me a break.”

Michael smirks, then presses his lips against your neck to hide his expression. “Perhaps we should continue the chess lesson.”

Tipping your head back and exposing your throat, you sigh. “Rome wasn’t built in a day, Terrific. I think I’ve learned everything I can for the first lesson. Unless you want me to start calling the knight Dwight.”

“You did well,” Michael muses. He kisses the side of your neck, brushing his nose along your jawline. “Perhaps we could take a break.”

He pulls your legs to the left, giving him unhindered access to your face. Michael kisses you, and your focus shifts away from chess. Yet, you urge yourself to remember what you learned. Michael wanted to share this with you, and you want to show him that you appreciate it.

A week after your first chess lesson, you’re sitting in Michael’s office with a cup of your favorite drink and unbreakable focus. Your phone buzzes on your fiancé’s desk, but you don’t bother to get up and check it. From the living room, you’d been able to see the Justice Gang fighting some rainbow-colored lizard-esque creature. Rolling your eyes, you continued down the hall. When you saw Michael’s office door open, the idea came easily.

“The knight moves in an L-shape,” you remind yourself, moving your hand above the board as you map possible moves. “But his bishop is hanging – it’s undefended and I have a clear path.”

Setting your mug aside, you cross your legs in the chair and lay your hands on either side of the board.

“Move your king,” Michael’s voice says. “Defend the pawn.”

You glance up, unsurprised to see a T-sphere hovering by the door.

“I would,” you drawl. “But that would leave my knight open to capture. I was thinking I’d move my rook to capture your bishop.”

The T-sphere moves closer to you, circles you quickly, then dips as if it’s bowing.

“Good job,” Mr. Terrific praises – you’re unsure if he’s talking to you or someone closer to him, though you suspect he’s only so kind with you - before the sphere flies into the hallways and disappears.

You shake your head and capture the bishop, grumbling, “He’s so weird.”

Your phone lands on the cushion beside you, and you reach out instinctively to save it from falling to the floor. Then, you realize that it shouldn’t be there.

Michael is leaning on his desk, his legs extended, and his arms crossed over his Mr. Terrific... costume? Uniform? You’re engaged, so you should know, but it feels too dangerous to ask now.

“You remembered our lesson,” he muses.

Nodding, you shift to one side of the chair and pat the open space beside you. Michael shakes his head but drops his arms and pushes off the desk anyway. When his legs bump into yours, he gestures for you to stand.

Michael takes your seat, then pulls you into his lap.

Tracing his jawline carefully, you ask, “Are you okay?”

“I’m good,” he assures you. “Fight was longer than it needed to be because Guy was showing off for a crowd.”

“That’s why you had time to check in on me?” you tease, smiling as you lie against his chest.

“You weren’t answering your texts.”

You sit up then, apologies rolling from your lips as you look at your fiancé.

“Hey,” he interrupts, taking your wrist in his hand. “I’m not mad. I just needed to know you were alright. That’s what we do, right?”

“Right,” you agree quietly. “But I’m sorry. I’ll change your text tone, something so I know it’s you. Know it’s worth getting up for.”

“Speaking of your phone…”

“What’d you do to it this time?” you sigh.

“Nothing!” Michael defends, using that tone that makes it sound like you’re the crazy one.

“Then what about it?”

Michael shifts his shoulders before he admits, “Guy found your Instagram. You should block him.”

Your lips part, but you don’t know how to respond to that. Instead, you gesture toward the chessboard.

“I got stuck,” you confess. “I defended my knight, captured another hanging piece, and then I got lost. I’m not sure what to do next.”

Carefully, Michael turns you so you can both see the chessboard.

“We don’t have to do this tonight,” you argue. “You just saved the city.”

Michael points to your king instead of responding. “You’re at a point where this piece becomes offensive.”

“Okay,” you whisper, attempting to follow along, even as Michael’s hands wander beneath your sweater.

As you lean forward, your sweater falls from one shoulder, exposing the tank top beneath. You sit up straight, smiling widely as you exclaim, “Checkmate!”

“What is that?” Michael asks, his eyes locked below your chin.

“Uh, a shirt?” you reply. “Do you not care that you just taught me how to not only play chess, but how to win?”

“Why are you wearing a Superman shirt?” Michael asks, using the exasperated Mr. Terrific tone you tend to hear in interviews.

Glancing down, you shrug. “He’s cool. The shirt’s comfy. Chess?”

“Play it with Superman,” Michael grumbles.

You sigh and stand, fixing your sweater as you retrieve your phone. “Okay. Think he’ll let me win, too?”

Michael clicks his tongue, then stands and tosses you over his shoulder in one easy movement. You don’t bother to fight back, but you whine when he bumps into the table and jostles the chessboard.

“Pick up where we left off tomorrow?” you ask as Michael drops you onto the bed.

“I’m regretting this.”

You pout and lift your arms, smiling triumphantly when your fiancé steps into your grasp. As you rake your nails along his spine, you whisper, “I can win everything.”

“I let your bishop through!” Michael reminds you, growing heavier against your chest.

“Sure, you did.” With a pat to his back, you repeat, “Sure, you did.”

Bonus:

“Dude, she plays chess!” Guy exclaims, showing his phone to Hawkgirl.

“So does 20% of the American population,” she replies flatly. “What’s your obsession with this girl?”

“I think it’s time to shoot my shot.”

Guy takes a deep breath, rolls his shoulders, and bounces from one foot to another. Before he can press the ‘Message’ button, a new story appears.

“Oh!” Hawkgirl yells when he opens it. “Guy, that… that’s rough.”

“Terrific!” Guy screams, turning on his heel.

“What?” Michael asks, looking over the top of his computer.

“You’re engaged?!” Hawkgirl interrupts.

“She plays chess,” Guy remembers, dropping his hand to his side.

“Unfollow her,” Michael instructs.

“Come on, man, it’s social media-“ Guy stops arguing when Michael tips his chin to the left. “Unfollowed. And, uh... Congrats, man.”

“Thanks.”

“So… need a best man?”

“I already have one.”

Guy somehow manages to look more insulted as he asks, “Who?”

A blue blur passes through the Hall of Justice, and then Superman is hugging Mr. Terrific. Guy storms out, Hawkgirl laughs so hard she tips backward, and you blink, trying to get your bearings after being snatched off your balcony by Superman and carted into your fiancé’s arms.

[tb-png]

sometimes you just have to lie on undercover operations, other times it’s because you want to inact petty revenge on your big brother <3

late night doodle of my very own stupid tweet LMAO

[starlitfables]

⋆. 𐙚˚࿔𝐆𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐆𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫❀˚⋆ (series)

pairing:mechanic!jason todd x bimbo!reader category:mechanic au, grumpy x sunshine, dc comics, romance, slice of life, slow burn, action, banter, soft tension, competent reader, strong female lead, quick scene of SH (nothing graphic!), foul language dividers:enchanthings a/n: finally got around to make the masterlist, hope it makes it easier for yall to find the full au now <3 btw, my asks are open if youd like to request your own idea for an update to this series hehe

˚.𖦹°Masterlist✶⋆.˚

༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･

⋆.𐙚 ̊Trouble in Heels

⋆.𐙚 ̊Red Line Regulations

⋆.𐙚 ̊Blonds, Braids & Barbie

*unfinished but being updated

༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･

[v3mpirs]

𝒥𝒶𝓈𝑜𝓃 𝒯𝑜𝒹𝒹 𝐹𝒾𝒸 𝑅𝑒𝒸𝓈! ⋆˚࿔

a compilation of some of my favorite jason todd fics 𑁤 pt2!

⋆.𐙚 ̊ lover boy - jason todd really really likes you. 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @cloudscars

⋆.𐙚 ̊ the “informant” - you mark up one of Jason's case files, and it slips both of your minds the next day. So, when Jason brings the file with him to the cave, everyone quickly catches on to the fact that Jason is working with someone. / @forresttfirre

⋆.𐙚 ̊ amidst the fading sunlight - when Jason finds a pair of handcuffs hanging from your bed, you never expect it to turn into the two of you tangled in the fading sunlight 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @froggibus

⋆.𐙚 ̊ kisses - jason kisses his way out of every argument / @njghtiee

⋆.𐙚 ̊ trouble in heels - when a mechanic meets a real life barbie! jason todd x bimbo!reader / @starlitfables

↪︎ bonus! mechanic jason todd x ditzy!reader u drive me crazy 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @juicykvnture

⋆.𐙚 ̊ in every universe - jason todd reunites with much more than an old friend. jason todd x high school sweetheart!reader / @pluvoia

⋆.𐙚 ̊ get back up here f’me - somno face-sitting with jason todd! 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @flockoff-featherface

⋆.𐙚 ̊ phone calls and heartaches - jason has a habit of calling you randomly. the only problem? you guys broke up weeks ago. / @the-midnight-duck

⋆.𐙚 ̊ old habits die hard - jason todd can't turn you away after you've had a shitty date; especially when all you want is to get fucked right. jason todd x ex-gf!reader 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @pluvoia

⋆.𐙚 ̊ truth and consequence - jason forgets about plans you made and you stumble across a secret. / @stresslessbaaby

⋆.𐙚 ̊ jealous, jealous, boy - jason todd gets jealous easily. it’s not your fault you attract attention, but you should have known better than to entertain some drunk idiot at the bar by accepting the drink he bought you. actions, you’ll learn, have consequences. 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @martiniluvr

↪︎bonus! more jealous jason todd x ex-gf!reader 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @blondekisses

+ evennnn more jealous jason todd x ex-gf!reader 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @juicykvnture

⋆.𐙚 ̊ stuck with me - even after your breakup with jason, he’d been showing up at your apartment every night without fail. when a heated confrontation turned physical, things revealed to be more complicated than you’d ever expected. 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @ficmenrhot

⋆.𐙚 ̊ protective!jason todd - aka jason knows better than to let anyone get away with hurting you / @squipa

⋆.𐙚 ̊ fwb!jason todd - he likes to get on your nerves; get you riled up, rolling your eyes at him and flipping him off and calling him names, because it's funny to see you mad! 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @pluvoia

⋆.𐙚 ̊ luv at first bite ft.dick grayson - in which you’re dragged to the annual gotham masquerade ball by a friend, promised a night to die for. but the party, hosted in the grand wayne manor by two brothers, is far from ordinary. 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @amourphoria

⋆.𐙚 ̊ I wanna hear you scream - a quiet town is thrown into chaos when a masked killer emerges from the shadows, leaving fear and bodies in their wake. 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @m00nxst0ne

⋆.𐙚 ̊ spring breakers ft. roy harper - challengers but it’s jason todd and roy harper 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @juicykvnture

⋆.𐙚 ̊ teach me how to scream - visiting your boyfriend’s house while he’s out, you’re surprised when his older brother answers the door. when he invites you in to wait, what starts as awkward small talk turns into something else entirely: questions you’ve never been asked, feelings you’ve never explored, and a slow unraveling of your innocence by someone who knows exactly what he’s doing. 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @amourphoria

⋆.𐙚 ̊ the plus side of the male ego - big hands, bigger temptation (and an even bigger dick). jason doesn't want to hold back anymore. he wants to break you. can you survive? 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @prettyngeto

⋆.𐙚 ̊ born to ride or whatever - you’d ride just about anything when it comes to your boyfriend. 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @cybermindz

⋆.𐙚 ̊ reflection - mirror sex with jason todd! 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @stargrltara

⋆.𐙚 ̊ selfish - jason todd really wants to get you pregnant. again. or what happens when jason gets needy. jason todd x wife!reader 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @burniingblue

⋆.𐙚 ̊ russian roulette - !DARK CONTENT! Jason ends up tied to a chair after chasing Gotham's newest villain. 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @rskdoll

⋆.𐙚 ̊ the arkham knight - when jason comes back and the only thing on his mind is you. alludes to the game Arkham Knight. 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @cursedheartsclub

⋆.𐙚 ̊ you make me a little desperate - where jason gets a new roommate and he can’t tell if he wants to kick her out or kiss her 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @luvztodd

I’m such a slut for him ohhh my god. lmk if u want a part 2 I have way more fics I absolutely adore!! I’m thinking of doing one for dick & tim too 𑁤

[v3mpirs]

𝒟𝒾𝒸𝓀 𝒢𝓇𝒶𝓎𝓈𝑜𝓃 𝐹𝒾𝒸 𝑅𝑒𝒸𝓈! ⋆˚࿔

a compilation of some of my favorite dick grayson fics 𑁤

↪︎ jason todd ver! ↪︎tim drake vers!

⋆.𐙚 ̊ frat party fiasco - beer pong turns into strip pong, and things get way out of hand when you end up in the upstairs bathroom with the president, dick grayson. this scandal is far from over, and honestly…the bathroom may never recover. 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @vanillanite

↪︎ more fratboy!dick grayson

𑁤 kappa party - feeling left out at a college costume party, you meet a guy dressed as Nightwing. His costume is so authentic you felt drawn by him, not knowing he’s Dick Grayson himself. 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @rskdoll

𑁤 possessive - possessive frat boy dick grayson getting increasingly more deranged about how he lays his claim on you as the semester wears on. / @uc1wa

𑁤 I got your number - dick grayson always had a chronic case of golden boy-ism for which there was no cure. everyone ever literally loved him, his floor a graveyard of bras left behind by various hookups - until he met you that is. and to his complete and utter dismay, his condition has evolved into something far worse - far more embarrassing. 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @juicykvnture

𑁤 lowk a male manipulator - fratboy!dick, a man of many… talents. 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @killakalx

⋆.𐙚 ̊ crave - the locals in the village had long told that the count and his family who were living in the dark castle on the hill are vampires. so you only had yourself to blame for not heeding their warning. / @cherryite

↪︎ more vampire!dick grayson

𑁤 the teeth you know - the war between the humans and the vampires has lasted for a year now. when you fled gotham, you thought that would be the last time you'd see the vampire king and the love of your life, dick grayson. You were wrong. 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @sanguineterrain

𑁤 tear me open - your vampire boyfriend is feeling a bit… peckish. It’s not his fault his girlfriend is lying there looking delicious! 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @juicykvnture

𑁤 bite me (pretty please) - your best friend dick grayson is a vampire & being the stubborn individual he is he refuses to feed from you... well until now! / @nocturnellee

ghostface!dick grayson

𑁤 scream for me - the mask was his secret. but you were always his obsession. 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @iydiamartinx

𑁤 ghostface - yandere ghostface au! / @fxckn-sxck-fr

𑁤 just like the movies ft. wally west - when the adrenaline after fighting crime gets too much, you offer yourself up to your boyfriends for some stress relief 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @froggibus

⋆.𐙚 ̊ cherry red - you weren’t sure when dick had become part of your getting ready routine — but somehow, you couldn’t imagine it without him anymore. / @fromrory

⋆.𐙚 ̊ bite me! - having dated you for two years and known you since childhood, Dick was already used to you being somewhat obsessed with biting him. / @snorinqfawn

⋆.𐙚 ̊ scary? my god you’re divine - the vessel of enchantress is now part of the team, the league thought it was better like that, better having her on their side than against them and someone has to teach her how to control the witch. they all know who you are, or what you are, but robin is the only one who doesn't see you as a monster, he sees through you in that persistent way of his and you can't ignore him even though you want to. / @njghtiee

⋆.𐙚 ̊ bsf!dick grayson - bsf!dick grayson and his wonderful obsession with you. / @slvthrs

↪︎ bonus! more bsf!dick grayson 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @killakalx

↪︎ bonus! lowk similar dynamic 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @killakalx

⋆.𐙚 ̊ coming back to - in which, dick grayson can't stand the idea of being your ex any longer. dick grayson x ex-gf!reader 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @pluvoia

⋆.𐙚 ̊ n’ for dessert, I’ll suck ur teeth! - making out with dick grayson is like a partynextdoor song — slow, intoxicating, soaked in rhythm and heat. / @navyhaze

⋆.𐙚 ̊ ignorance is bliss - you know your boyfriend, dick is mad, purposely ignoring him isn't always the best idea... especially when your boyfriend loves to take his frustration out sexually... and you knew you were in for a long night when you came home after ignoring him all day... 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @murdock-slvt

⋆.𐙚 ̊ optimization needed - when dick grayson finds out he's not eating you out in the way he thinks you deserve, he wants to change that. 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @cloudscars

↪︎ pt2! dick grayson is a munch 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @cloudscars

⋆.𐙚 ̊ sweetheart - maybe sometimes sweetheart does depend on dick too much 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @blondekisses

⋆.𐙚 ̊ nintendhoe ft.wally west - when dick & wally have a little… competition 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @juicykvnture

⋆.𐙚 ̊ help out a good friend - dick grayson is your good friend (not best, but good friend), and what kind of good friend would he be if he let you be so sexually frustrated because of your loser boyfriend? 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @murdock-slvt

⋆.𐙚 ̊ camboy!dick grayson - whose notorious for being a walking sex appeal; his pretty face fanned with long, girly lashes, paired with his toned body that would make even greek gods feel ashamed. 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @navyhaze

↪︎ bonus! more camboy!dick grayson • pt2! 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @juicykvnture

↪︎ double whammy! more camboy!dick grayson 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @celestigasm

⋆.𐙚 ̊ risky temptations - you knew you should have left more space when tailing nightwing. while he might have been in his civies, that didn’t make him any less aware, which is why you’re not tied up 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @softhandz

⋆.𐙚 ̊ jealous roommate - you are Dick’s roommate and have been asked to go on a date with a guy. What you didn’t expect was for him to show up at the restaurant unannounced. / @kizubow

↪︎ bonus! more jealous!dick grayson / @noodlie-reads

⋆.𐙚 ̊ one of the girls - when you and your girlfriend go to a strip club things get heated 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @loonatears

⋆.𐙚 I could stare at your back all day - aka when you and your ex had a messy breakup… / @cheymidnights

↪︎ part 2!

⋆.𐙚 accidents happen - technically, you couldn't be blamed for thinking dick wouldn't get just a tad angry at you for touching his escrima sticks, right? I mean, you'd just been curious, you waved them around a little and now - 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @flashroid

⋆.𐙚 I need a minute - hockey just became your favourite sport after #10 Dick Grayson would not stop flirting with you the whole time. / @pookalicious-hq

⋆.𐙚 congratulations on your new improvements - You knew Dick Grayson when you were kids, back when he was Robin and you were the journalist’s daughter sneaking after stories you weren’t supposed to. He was awkward, gangly, more earnest than smooth, and you had a crush anyway. Then you left Gotham, and life moved on. Years later, you’re back in the city with a press badge of your own, chasing leads and running headfirst into trouble. Except this time, it’s not Robin who finds you, It’s Nightwing. Taller. Broader. Unfairly charming. / @cursedheartsclub

⋆.𐙚 round whatever - Dick Grayson is a chronic head tilter. It's especially bad when you're underneath him, naked and sweaty from the way he's worked you up and over the edge so many times. 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @compersion

⋆.𐙚 summer roommate - you’d never met him before he moved in. your friend mentioned her brother needed a place to crash, swore he was chill, quiet, harmless. harmless was a lie. / @celestigasm

⋆.𐙚 ̊ academic rivals series! - you and dick grayson started as rivals, the kind everyone whispered about in class. top students, top of your year, neck and neck in every assignment. you couldn’t stand him: the perfect smile, the natural ease, the way he never seemed to struggle. and he found your sharp retorts and stubbornness endlessly entertaining. when a teacher paired you together for a major research project, it was war. he teased, you rolled your eyes. he smiled through everything, you matched him with pure determination. but somewhere between late-night notes and quiet library corners, things began to shift. / @njghtiee

⋆.𐙚 ̊ deprivation - in which, dick grayson has got a new-found ego; so of course, you decide to fuck it out of him. 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @pluvoia

⋆.𐙚 ̊ worth the risk - Being the Police Chief’s daughter means every cop in the precinct treats you like you’re made of glass—except Officer Dick Grayson. He’s smart, charming, infuriatingly handsome…and completely off-limits. / @angiegotham

⋆.𐙚 ̊ when fan fiction comes to life - dick finds your dirty little fanfic and brings it to life 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @celestigasm

⋆.𐙚 ̊ already? - “i’m close.” “already?” — ft. dick grayson, aka 'nightwing' 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @kkai-zen

⋆.𐙚 ̊ chemicals hit like a drug - aka dick takes matters into his own hands 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @mostly-imagines

⋆.𐙚 ̊ date crasher - dick grayson swears he’s not in love with you. he just happens to find an unreasonable amount of joy in ruining your dates. purely for entertainment, of course. / @kthologue

⋆.𐙚 ̊ lightning strikes twice - The data indicating the average person experiences 3.4 attacks annually is misleading. You- who seem to find yourself in the wrong place at the wrong time several times a month- represents a significant deviation from the norm and should not be counted in the dataset. Or; in which Nightwing accidentally develops feelings for the anxious woman whose rescue has become part of his regular nightly routine by this point. / @silverlullabies

as you can tell a lotttt of this is just pure smut but I mean, god forbid a girl creates a list while she’s ovulating :3 fanfics aside nightwing is such an amazing character I love him so much ༯

[neellscapsule]

happy anniversary, by the way

summary | a month later, things have started to settle down once again. the day of your anniversary shows you that you can never trust the calm before the storm.

pairing | bruce wayne x kent!reader. platonic batboys & cass x kent!reader

warnings / tags | mama and papa reconcile (🙌) (this is like the fifth time). dick is the biggest mama's boy ever. damian and reader actually getting along despite damian being damian. bruce doing everything to get reader back despite already having her. honestly such angsty heart breaking final for this chapter but it's going to get better . . . after it got worse :D

word count | 6.2k

authors note | hi there!! english is not my first language so there might be some mistakes, or not, it can depend :)

this is part of the kent!batmom!reader series. this can be read as part 17. you'll the other parts on the masterlist.

taglist | @maolen @joonunivrs @c4ssi4-luv @fanfics4ever @inejskywalker @resting-confused-face @fionnalopez @stargirl9911 @idek101-01 @shqyou

@mei-simp @serendippindots @sirlovel @aixaingela @pjmgojo @antixsocialx2 @nisarelle @realiliumfr @gojoswaterbottle @connnn

@jjoppees @yall-imhere @b4bycameh0me @nekotaetae @wendee-go @idiomaticpunk @fandomlover1235 @nommingonfood @omisotolongo @lortheswiftie

@owihitmyhead @mosseetrees @c4xcocoa @qardasngan @radicalcannoliqueen @jeshomie @cutie232 @ravenqueen27 @thy-crimson-king @thewiselionessss

@fernomenal @chiizuluvr @natalia42069 @invinciblewaffles @changyumi3 @mbioooo0000 @caramelised-onions @nymphzy0 @lilylovelyxo @notahappystan

YOUR ANIVERSARY ARRIVED WITH A CALM MORNING, SUNNY AND WARM, UNUSUAL FOR THE SEASON. 

The rising sun stretched slowly across your bedroom, the golden glow slipping through the curtains like a gentle reminder that time had not frozen—no matter how much your heart had wished it might, for just a little while longer. The familiar smell of the manor greeted you first—a blend of polished wood, fresh coffee, and the faint lingering trace of Bruce’s cologne in the sheets beside you. A softness hummed in your chest.

It had been a month since everything changed. A month since truth spilled like shattered glass across your garden. A month of learning how to breathe again next to Bruce Wayne.

Forgiveness hadn’t been a grand declaration or a cinematic reunion. It had been quiet — small nods, soft touches, brief kisses. A hand resting on Bruce’s arm during dinner. Leaning into his chest when nightmares threatened. And Bruce — he kept trying, over and over, in a thousand different ways, as though he feared that if he stopped for even a second, you might disappear.

Over the years, you had grown accustomed to being spoiled by him. Now, it wasn't any different. Trillions of flowers filled every corner of your existence, your favourite chocolates and sweets, and even your closet had grown double the size. 

You blinked awake gradually, letting yourself exist in that serene halfway space between sleep and morning, where nothing hurt yet. You stretched quietly beneath the covers, muscles relaxing, mind taking its slow steps into consciousness. And then you felt it—the bed dipped slightly beside you, a shadow looming just above your shoulder.

You turned your head and found Bruce sitting at the edge, dressed in dark sweatpants and a soft henley, damp hair pushed back from an early shower. He looked younger like this — rested, almost human. His eyes were warm when he saw you awake.

“Good morning,” he whispered.

You smiled, voice still thick with sleep. “Good morning.”

He leaned down, brushing a kiss to your temple, then another just behind your ear — careful, as though you might vanish beneath his lips. “Happy anniversary, sweetheart.”

You inhaled sharply — the words tender in his low voice. Bruce had always spoken sparingly, love for him expressed more through protection, through vigil and sacrifice, than through celebration. But here he was — making this day matter.

“Happy anniversary, my love,” you breathed, touching his cheek. “You remembered.”

His lips curved in a quiet smirk. “You think I’d forget the best day the world ever gave me?”

You snorted softly. “That’s a bit dramatic, even for you.”

“I’m Batman,” Bruce reminded you with a confident little hum. “I can declare what day it's the best for me.”

You kissed him again, a little longer this time, and he smiled against your mouth before pulling back, hand caressing your hip. 

“I, uh… tried to make breakfast,” he admitted.

You raised an eyebrow. “…You tried?”

He groaned. “Alfred stopped me before the kitchen caught fire.”

You giggled—an actual giggle—and Bruce looked like he’d just been handed the world. How he loved that sound, wishing to keep it forever by his side. 

He stood and offered his hand to help you out of bed. You took it.

The manor felt alive in a way it hadn’t for weeks. The tension that used to cling to the walls had started to dissolve, replaced by something new—slowly rebuilt trust. The smell of pancakes and maple syrup drew you into the kitchen, where Alfred stood as composed as ever, flipping something delicious on the stove.

“Good morning, Mrs. Wayne,” he greeted warmly. “May this day treat you as kindly as you treat everyone else.”

“Thank you, Alfred,” you said, touched. “It already has.”

Tim was already at the table—slouched with messy hair, nursing a mug of coffee like it was vital for survival. He looked up when you entered and instantly brightened.

“Happy anniversary for the both of you!” he said, standing quickly to give you a hug. “How many years? Fifteen? That’s like… barely even a number. You’re timeless, mom. Not the same for you, Bruce.”

“Smooth, Tim,” Bruce deadpanned.

“It’s not flattery if it’s true,” Tim retorted before turning back to you with a grin. “Seriously, you look radiant, mom.”

Cass slipped in silently behind you, leaning in to wrap her arms around your shoulders from behind. “Happy anniversary.” It was simple, but emotionally full—everything Cassandra embodied.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” you said, squeezing her hand. “Thank you, Timmy. I know you meant it in the nicest way.”

Then Dick came bounding into the kitchen like a storm of joy.

“MOM!” he practically shouted, nearly tackling you in a hug. “You’re the best! Did anyone say that yet? Because I’m saying it again!”

Your breath left you in a laugh against his shoulder. “Good morning, Dick.”

He kissed your cheek with dramatic enthusiasm. “Best morning. Because you’re here. And smiling.”

Bruce looked at him, suspicious. “What are you up to?”

“Being nice,” Dick said innocently.

He looked more suspicious.

You shook your head, heart swelling with warmth—and relief. The boys had been fiercely protective of you since everything happened. Dick most of all. His smile today felt real again.

Damian…hovered.

Ten-year-old aloofness wrapped in a too-big cape of pride. He approached with reluctant steps, arms crossed behind his back.

“Congratulations on surviving another year of marriage,” he said flatly.

Dick groaned. “Dude. Really?”

Damian’s chin rose. “Statistically speaking, Gotham is one of the most dangerous—”

“It’s fine,” you cut in before the bickering could start. “Thank you, Damian. That means a lot.”

He nodded curtly. “Please refrain from aging faster than Father can keep up with.”

It was almost sweet.

Whiskers herself chose that moment to weave between his legs, and despite his stoic expression, he bent down to let her rub her face against his fist.

Progress.

“You again,” he muttered to the cat.

Whiskers purred louder.

You folded your arms, teasing lightly. “She likes you.”

Damian’s chin lifted a little too quickly. “It is irrelevant.”

“Is it?”

He hesitated—just a beat—then crouched elegantly, picking Whiskers up with practiced gentleness. She melted against him instantly.

You tried not to smile too visibly.

The breakfast continued as usual. Dick didn't stay for too much, since he had work to go to, but he promised to come back for the night, as you usually went to eat out to a really nice restaurant at night for your anniversary. Cass went to her speech therapy, as every morning, and soon Bruce and you had to go to work as well, and the other two to school.

The towering silhouette of Wayne Tower gleamed under the unusually warm sunlight. Your inner farm girl still marveled at the sheer height of the city’s structures sometimes, but you walked through its glass doors with the poise of someone who had adapted long ago.

Wayne Enterprises’ highest floor belonged to the two of you — the co-leadership offices branching from a shared private meeting lounge. Your name beside his on the silver plaque was still surreal some mornings. You remembered those early years: the awkward stares, the whispered judgments about the Smallville girl. But now, employees greeted you with respect that had been earned — through compassion, intellect, and results.

Your morning unfolded with the usual rhythm: emails, calls, schedules in flux. A large investment proposal needed refinement before Bruce negotiated it in the afternoon. Sustainability initiatives for Gotham’s older neighborhoods fell under your oversight — something that mattered deeply to you.

While you worked, Bruce occasionally looked up from his desk just to check if you needed anything. Ever since what had happened, he was dedicated to proving himself worthy of it. You did not hold it over his head; you had loved this man too long and too deeply to do that. But letting him try… felt good. Healing. Hopeful.

Around midday, as you finalized agenda points for a board briefing, your office phone rang — the secure line.

You answered immediately. “Wayne Enterprises. Mrs. Wayne speaking.”

“Mrs. Wayne,” came a voice you didn’t recognize immediately. “This is Principal Harris from Gotham Academy.”

A punch of worry landed in your gut before logic caught up. 

“Is everything alright with my boys?” you asked — instinctive — not even realizing the inclusion until a second later, until that one simple plural wrapped Damian into your heart without permission or announcement.

The principal coughed lightly. “Well… something did happen. But not quite in the way you might fear.”

Your grip tightened on the phone. “Tell me.”

“There was an altercation during recess. From witness accounts, another student physically provoked Damian. He retaliated… rather aggressively. The other boy’s wrist is fractured. We’ve already contacted the parents of the other student as well.”

You closed your eyes, inhaling through your nose — counting, grounding. Damian. Of course.

The principal continued, stumbling. “Given… the nature of the injury… we believe it’s best you come in.”

“I’ll be there shortly.”

You did not slam the phone down, but you did not waste a second. You stood — swiftly — reaching for your coat.

Bruce saw the tension first. “What happened?”

“Gotham Academy. Damian got into a fight.” You shook your head once, worry pulling at you. “Broke another boy’s wrist.”

Bruce exhaled, his jaw tightening with a mixture of concern and grim expectation. “I’ll go.”

“No,” you said gently. “You have the board meeting in twenty minutes. Let me handle this one.” It was your anniversary — yet motherhood did not take holidays. Especially not here.

Bruce hesitated — visibly torn — then stepped closer, placing a firm hand on your shoulder. “Call me when you’re done. And… thank you.”

You kissed his cheek — a soft reassurance — and left the office with a determined stride.

The car ride to Gotham Academy felt shorter than usual, though your thoughts churned like storm winds. When you stepped into the principal’s office, Damian sat off to the side, in a chair entirely too small for the severity of his presence. His arms were crossed, his brows carved into a permanent scowl. He looked like a tiny king forced into diplomacy with peasants.

The fractured-wrist boy was nowhere to be seen — probably taken to the nurse or hospital already.

Principal Harris was a thin man with worry lines that seemed permanent on his face. He stood quickly when you entered.

“Mrs. Wayne. Thank you for coming.”

You nodded, glancing at Damian. He refused to meet your eyes.

“What happened?” you asked, gentle but firm.

The principal cleared his throat. “There was a… disagreement. We’re still gathering details.”

“Disagreement,” you repeated slowly, “is not usually a word chosen when a bone breaks.”

Damian scoffed quietly. You shot him a cautionary glance. He lifted his chin in defiance.

The principal continued nervously, “That is precisely why we wanted to discuss options for disciplinary action. Violence of this magnitude cannot be ignored.”

You nodded. “I agree.” Damian’s head snapped toward you with wide-eyed outrage. You kept speaking calmly. “However, I also expect the investigation to address why he was provoked, and how severely.”

“I simply defended myself,” Damian interjected coldly. “The coward dared strike first. I returned the favor with superior skill. It is justice. He should be grateful I went easy on him.”

You inhaled through your nose — patience a learned skill. “Damian.”

He stared you down — that intense gaze far too adult for a ten-year-old. 

The principal sighed, pressing his palms flat on the desk.

“The boys were out in the courtyard during break. A group approached Damian — the Jenkins brothers and Parker. They began teasing him… about his parentage.”

That hot, electric shock of memory — old Smallville cruelty that didn't actually appeared in your head for too long — twisted in your gut. Kids could be cruel. Terribly cruel.

“They called him a… bastard,” the principal continued, hesitant.

Damian’s eyes flicked sharply to the man — a warning. His knuckles whitened.

“And one of them shoved him. Hard enough that he stumbled. At that point, Damian struck back.”

You turned to look at him fully. “How badly?”

The principal tapped a file. “The other boy’s wrist is fractured in two places. There’s bruising around his eye and jaw. We’ve notified his parents. They wanted police involvement — but given Bruce Wayne’s contributions to the school and… past negotiations… we’re limiting consequences to a suspension and a mandatory behavioral program.”

“Suspension?” Damian scoffed, as if insulted by the triviality.

You held his gaze until that defiance wavered.

“Mr. Wayne,” the principal said, voice stern, “violence of that level is unacceptable, regardless of provocation.”

“He pushed me first,” Damian snapped back.

Your response came sharper than intended — frustration and fear blending into one. “And you could have walked away.”

For a second, you saw his father in him — the tightening around the eyes, the silent refusal to accept weakness. But then you saw something else — a child, wounded, back straight like he feared collapsing into anything soft.

His nostrils flared, fury trapped in a too-small body. Rage like wildfire sealed in glass.

You sighed softly and turned toward the principal. “We’ll take responsibility for damages and medical costs. I apologize on behalf of our family.”

The principal nodded — relieved.

“Thank you. I know Damian is… dealing with adjustments. But we can’t have incidents escalate to this level. He is very bright — incredibly bright — but the aggression…”

“Yes,” you said. “We are aware.”

Paperwork was signed. Details reviewed. The principal dismissed you both with stiff politeness.

Silence followed you into the hallway.

Damian marched ahead — back straight, footsteps hostile. The long corridor felt too quiet for all the emotions boiling beneath the surface. You caught up to him by the exit, pushing open the door to the courtyard.

Sunlight washed over his dark hair — and for a moment you saw your second Robin, your stomach clenching.

“Damian,” you called, soft but firm.

He stopped, but didn’t turn.

You approached slowly, boots crunching over the few dry leaves scattered near the courtyard steps. He didn’t look at you. His shoulders were drawn tight, every muscle wired for war.

You stepped to his side.

“What happened?” you asked, gentle.

He clicked his tongue, irritation sharp. “You heard the imbecile.”

“I want to hear it from you.”

Silence. A long one. And when he finally spoke, the words balanced on the edge of a blade.

“I was walking to class. The boy — Jensen —” His face twisted bitterly at the name. “He said I didn’t belong here. That I was some… stray my father picked up.”

Stray. Bastard. Words used to break children like him, to wedge doubt into identity.

You kept your voice steady. “And then?”

“He shoved me. Twice.” He paused, glare dropping to the ground. “I stumbled.”

The admission cost him. You saw it in the clench of his jaw, in the tremor that threatened to give him away.

“And you reacted?” you prodded, softly.

“I defended myself.”

Your hand hovered before resting lightly on his arm — a careful invitation to connection he could reject if he wished. He didn’t move away. Not yet.

“Do you know what defending yourself looks like, Damian?” you asked quietly. “It is choosing to walk away from someone who isn’t worth your time.”

He turned sharply, disbelief and offense sparking in his eyes.

“He insulted my blood.” His voice cracked lightly — a thin crack, but a crack all the same. “He insulted my mother.”

Your heart dropped. The softness in his expression lasted half a second before he slammed that steel wall back up.

You bent slightly to truly meet his eye-level. “Damian. You don’t have to prove your worth to anyone.”

“They think I am illegitimate,” he spat. “They think I am—”

“A bastard,” you finished for him, unwilling to let the word hold power over him alone.

He swallowed hard. The word didn’t feel like a blade anymore — it felt like a bruise.

“You know who you are,” you told him. “That’s what scares them.”

His eyes flicked away, gaze catching briefly on a group of kids across the courtyard laughing together, unaware of the war being fought in the shadow of their playground.

You straightened, brushing your hand once across his back — a gesture meant to reassure, even if he wouldn’t admit needing it.

“Come on,” you said. “Let’s get you home.”

He moved stiffly beside you as you walked toward the car. No thanks, no acquiescence. Just forward motion, like stopping might result in the world collapsing around him.

Once inside, the door shut with a thud that somehow felt too loud in the tense quiet. You waited for him to buckle in before starting the engine.

The drive began in silence — but the kind that wasn’t peace, just the absence of words.

Trees blurred by the windows. He stared ahead, jaw working, fingers tapping restless patterns on his thigh, as though he was sparring with invisible enemies.

You didn’t rush him. Children like Damian — raised in fire, taught that vulnerability was a crime — needed space for silence.

Halfway home, he finally spoke.

“They think I am less.”

His voice was nearly inaudible, but you heard every fracture in it.

You kept your eyes on the road as you answered. “They are wrong.”

His lip curled. “You do not know what they said.”

“Yes,” you said gently. “I do. People whispered about me my whole childhood. Because I was different. Because my parents were older. Because I came from a farm and I didn’t understand what cruelty tasted like. But that didn’t make their words true.”

“You are not like me,” he said, the bitterness returning. “You are a Kent.”

“And you are a Wayne. Thank you for the birth clarification.”

“I am not ashamed,” Damian snapped, mistaking your irony. “They are beneath me.”

“That doesn’t mean their words don’t hurt.”

He scoffed. “Words do not injure me.”

“Then why did you strike back so hard?”

His silence was an answer. You let it sit.

Traffic moved in slow waves. Gotham blurred in muted colors — steel grays and threatening blues, glass towers glinting like blades — a city that never blinked, even when its children bled.

Damian folded his arms over his chest, his jaw locked. A child molded into a weapon. A blade raised before it ever learned the purpose of softness. Even now, sitting in your passenger seat, he held himself like he expected attack — ready to counter, never relax.

You tightened your grip on the wheel as you spoke again. “You have every right to feel angry.”

“I do not feel angry,” he insisted.

“Then what do you feel?”

His nostrils flared. His gaze turned to the window. The world outside — a blur of cruelty and concrete — reflected the armor he wore. He didn’t speak.

You didn’t push. For a moment, the car was filled only with the sound of Gotham’s heartbeat — sirens far away, the low growl of engines, the hum of life always teetering on the edge of violence.

He shook his head, muttering as if to himself. “They know nothing. They understand nothing.”

Your voice was calm. “They don’t have to understand you. I understand you.”

“You think you do,” he said sharply. “You think this is like Jason. Or like the others.”

Your breath faltered — Jason — his name, a ghost that never left.

You recovered before he could notice the ache. “This is like you, Damian. Only you.”

“That is worse,” he muttered.

He turned his face toward the window again, but his reflection wavered slightly — eyes too bright, mouth too tight. A child betrayed by emotion he refused to show.

And for a second, you felt younger too. You felt as that young mother once again. No one dared to pronounce his name so freely. No one said his name to your face.

You pressed your lips together, looking into the front, and didn't speak again.

You didn't return to work. Just left a message to Bruce explaining what had happened at school, saying you preferred to stay back for this once.

The greenhouse waited like a heart encased in glass.

Plants grew in careful chaos — climbing vines, rich soil, wild bursts of color. A small slice of life you had carved into the mansion’s cold bones. The scent of earth — living, rooted, forgiving — welcomed you inside.

You rolled up your sleeves and began repotting a small violet bush, pretending not to notice Damian hovering in the doorway exactly at ten minutes.

He crept in silently — not because he feared startling you, but because silence was how he’d been taught to exist. His gaze was fixed on your hands, on the soft crumble of soil falling through your fingers like something sacred yet utterly foreign to him.

You didn’t meet his eyes, not yet. You only smiled to yourself and reached for another pot.

“You can come closer,” you said gently.

Damian hesitated, then stepped forward, boots scuffing softly against the stone floor. He kept his arms crossed, body sharp with tension — a perfect defensive line in a place meant only for growth.

“Have you ever gardened before?” you asked.

“No,” he answered flatly.

“You might like it.”

He scoffed lightly. “I doubt it.”

You suppressed a smile. “Well, try it once before you declare war on it.”

His brow knit, almost offended by your choice of words. He approached the table and stood stiffly beside you.

You placed a fresh terracotta pot in front of him.

“Pick a plant,” you encouraged.

His eyes scanned the tables around you. Row after row of green — some soft and flowering, others spiny or strange. He moved with the same precision he used while assessing an opponent. You noticed him pause near a small pot of lavender — tiny blossoms in purple clusters.

His hand hovered above it, unsure if he was allowed to touch.

You nudged his wrist, soft but certain. “Go on.”

He lifted the pot, holding it awkwardly — too tight, knuckles whitening. You gently repositioned his fingers until the grip was softer, safer.

His cheeks flushed at the correction.

“Why lavender?” you asked, not teasing — simply curious.

Damian tilted his chin slightly. “Lavandula angustifolia. It is used for calming effects in teas and oils. Mother said it keeps the mind clear.”

“And do you believe that?”

His lips pressed together. “I believe in what can be proven.”

“And calmness hasn’t been proven to you yet?”

He scowled, realizing he’d walked into that one.

You smoothed soil over your violet roots, then brushed your hands off on your pants. “Let’s start by freeing it.”

Damian frowned. “Freeing?”

You nodded to the roots bound inside the plastic pot. “Plants hate confinement. They want room to expand.”

He stared at the pot — brows furrowed — as though he’d never considered the idea that even something so silent could want freedom. He set the plant down too abruptly, and soil spilled out onto the table.

His body stiffened. “I—”

“It’s alright,” you interrupted before he could spiral into frustration. “Gardening is messy.”

You reached for the pot and tilted it gently. “Squeeze the sides, loosen the hold.”

Damian mirrored your movements. Rougher, hurried — but trying. The plant came loose suddenly, and he nearly dropped it. He made a sharp noise in his throat — embarrassment and indignation all at once.

Before he could mask it, you steadied his hands with yours.

“It’s okay,” you whispered. “Plants don’t judge us.”

His eyes flicked up to yours, wide for just a breath before he snapped the expression away.

He set the roots into the new pot with careful precision. Too careful. His motions were rigid, like he feared breaking something delicate.

“What do I do now?” he asked, voice quieter.

“Give it space,” you said. “Let it breathe.”

He stared at the plant like it was an impossible puzzle, like something in front of him defied the rules he grew up obeying.

You handed him a small tool — a wooden dowel used to shift soil. He examined it as though he expected it to hide a blade.

“Loosen the roots.”

“That is absurd,” he muttered, but he still followed the motion you showed him — poking holes through the soil, allowing the roots space to grow.

You watched his hands; they were steady, but too tense. A child sculpted by the expectation of perfection.

“You can breathe,” you reminded.

He huffed, but his shoulders relaxed by a millimeter.

The sun shifted, glass panes catching light that splashed across his hair — the green in his eyes brightening like secret life awakened. He kept his focus on the work, not daring to look up again.

He was trying. He wanted to do well. And that mattered more than anything.

“Father fears I will become like them,” he said suddenly.

You blinked. “Like who?”

“The League. Mother. Grandfather.” His throat bobbed. “He thinks I am destined for their path.”

“And what do you think?” you asked.

He didn’t hesitate. “I think he does not understand me.”

You stepped closer, reaching up to brush a leaf from his shoulder. “You are not your blood, Damian. You are your choices.”

“No,” he corrected, gaze fierce. “I am both.”

You paused — because he was right. He was not running from his history. He was trying to master it.

“And that,” you said slowly, “is what makes you stronger than they ever were.”

His eyes widened slightly — as if the possibility had never existed before.

You wiped the dirt gently from his cheek. He didn’t flinch. Not this time.

“You are allowed to be more than one thing,” you told him. “You are a warrior. And a child. A Wayne. And an Al Ghul. A protector. And someone who deserves protection.”

Damian stared up at you — walls lowered, not gone but cracked enough for light to pass through — but it didn't last long.

When he finished, he stepped back, inspecting the plant like a commander reviewing troops.

You picked up a watering can, placing it into his hands. “Now help it drink.”

He hesitated. “How much?”

“Just enough. Too much water can drown roots. Too little and they dry up.”

“Balance,” he murmured, recognizing the familiar lesson hidden beneath gentleness.

You nodded. “Exactly.”

He tipped the spout, slow and focused. When a drop slid off a leaf and splashed onto his wrist, he flinched, then frowned at himself for it.

You pretended not to notice.

After a moment, he said, “If it dies—”

“It won’t,” you assured.

“But if it does,” he insisted, “that will be my failure.”

“Or a second chance,” you countered softly.

Damian shifted uncomfortably. “I do not like second chances.”

“Most people don’t,” you said. “Especially the ones who need them the most.”

He looked up again — eyes locking with yours — and you saw the ache he carried beneath years of inherited armor.

You didn’t push. You simply placed your hand over his again, grounding the moment.

“Life isn’t a test you pass or fail,” you said. “It’s something you tend. Like this.”

His jaw clenched. “I don’t know how.”

“That’s why you’re learning.”

His breathing softened, as if he believed you more than he knew how to express.

“Now, go clean up. We will go to eat Chinese today.”

The restaurant was warm and bright and loud in the way only family could be. Lanterns glowed red overhead, casting soft reflections over glossy tables and silver chopsticks. The scent of ginger and sautéed garlic trailed through the air, wrapped in steam from sizzling platters carried by swift hands.

It was a night meant to be happy.

Your anniversary with Bruce.

You still weren’t entirely sure how this family had come to be so large, so noisy, so tangled. But as you looked down the table — Dick laughing too hard at something Tim said, Cassandra smiling faint and soft while Damian stared critically at a plate of dumplings as if they were enemies — you felt a warmth rise in your chest. Alfred sat at the far end, posture straight but eyes gentle, quietly savoring a hot cup of tea.

And beside them, like a reminder of everything good that had ever touched your life, Clark and Lois sat with little Jon swinging his legs beneath his chair. Conner sat next to him, eyeing the chopsticks like they were weapons he wasn’t sure he’d been trained to use.

Everyone crowded around the long table, voices overlapping, plates shifting, life thundering.

Everyone.

Everyone except the one who should have never been missing.

You didn’t let that thought settle. Not tonight.

Bruce sat beside you, hand occasionally brushing yours. He was relaxed tonight — or relaxed by Bruce standards — head slightly tipped toward the conversation, the faintest upward curve threatening the corner of his mouth. He always looked younger around the family. Less carved from stone.

You leaned into him a little. He didn’t move away.

It really could have been perfect.

Jon grabbed a dumpling with his whole fist, victorious.

“Look! I did it!” he declared.

Clark’s eyebrows raised in mild panic. “Okay buddy, that one’s going to explode—”

The dumpling did, in fact, explode — an impressive pop of steam and filling splattering the tablecloth and Dick’s sleeve.

Dick yelped. Tim nearly fell from laughter. Damian snorted once — a tiny, reluctant betrayal of amusement.

You laughed. The kind of laugh that lit up the ribs from the inside.

Bruce shook his head. “This restaurant is going to ban us.”

“It’s our anniversary,” you said. “They wouldn’t dare.”

You both looked at Jon again, who was sitting in front of Damian, yapping non-stop. Although your step-son looked annoyed, he didn't do anything ruthless. Perhaps because he knew he was in front of Superman, or because he was your nephew, but he listened and answered back when he could.

Bruce leaned to your ear, voice low. “He’s enjoying himself.”

“Yes,” you whispered. “He is.”

And so were you, even as Bruce rose from his seat. He didn’t make an announcement, didn’t excuse himself. He simply stood, fingers brushing your shoulder.

“Restroom,” he murmured.

You nodded. “Don’t take too long.”

He smiled faintly — a ghost of a smile — and slipped away.

The moments after blurred into chatter and clinking glasses. But slowly — slowly — that warmth in your chest chilled.

You checked the time on your phone.

Seven minutes.

Maybe nothing.

Clark watched you, eyes kind. “Still can’t believe it’s been so long,” he said. “Feels like yesterday when you introduced us to Bruce.”

“Yesterday?” Lois snorted. “More like a lifetime.”

You laughed, taking the comment in the best possible way.

Ten minutes.

Your heartbeat tapped faster.

Fifteen minutes.

The laughter around the table grew louder, Jon and Conner now engaged in chopstick dueling. Damian lectured them both on primitive behavior. Clark and Lois exchanged amused glances. Alfred looked content, sipping tea.

No one else noticed, but you did.

Bruce never took long. Not when he knew you would notice. Not when he wanted to be present, truly present, seated beside you while the world dared to be gentle.

You rose quietly. “I’ll be right back.”

No one questioned it.

The restaurant hallway was dimmer, lit by a row of gold sconces reflecting off polished walls. You stepped into the restroom — the men’s, because Bruce certainly wasn’t in the ladies’ — and your heart hammered when you realized…

Empty.

Sink gleaming. Paper towels folded tightly. No movement behind the grey-stall doors.

No Bruce.

But then — a sound. A quick shuffle of weight against metal. Two sets of movement. One heavy, controlled. The other faster, lighter. The kind of steps trained in shadows.

Your blood froze. Your feet moved.

The back door to the terrace slammed open into the night, and rain hit you immediately — cold needles against warm skin. The city stretched out in skyscraper silhouettes and neon reflections, Gotham breathing up from below.

And there — at the far side of the terrace — were two men.

Batman. Bruce stood near the middle of the rooftop, rain streaking down his jaw, soaking through his suit.

Opposite him — another shadow.

Smaller by inches but harder in every line. A figure dressed in black, wet leather clinging to muscle shaped by brutality rather than training. His chest bore a symbol you couldn’t see clearly. But his hand—

His hand held a mask.

Red. A helmet like the one that had haunted Gotham’s alleys these past months — the vigilante criminals called a ghost, a curse, a second coming of vengeance.

The man who had been following you. The one you never feared.

Rain slid from his fingers, dripping from the edges of the helmet like blood washed away.

His shoulders heaved once. Twice.

Lightning cracked across the clouds—the flash lit his face.

And your world collapsed.

Messy dark hair — longer in places, hacked shorter in others — and in the front, a single streak of white cutting through like a scar nature had painted. His skin bore real scars — jagged reminders of fire, steel, fists, death. He was older. Broader. A young man grown wrong, grown fast.

But his eyes—

They were Jason’s.

Your son.

Your boy.

Blanket in hand the day he called you mom for the first time. Dirt on his face when he discovered the garden. Fear and anger and fierce love all crammed inside his too-small chest.

Gone.

Dead.

Buried.

He stood completely still. Like the rain striking him turned to stone upon contact.

Bruce stared at him — armor exposed, cowl missing, black suit soaked to the seams. Breath shallow, eyes wide, trapped between disbelief and relief and fear and grief — all at once.

You whispered his name before you could stop yourself.

“Jason?”

The name slipped from your mouth like a prayer — cracked from too many nights whispered into a cold bed.

Jason’s fingers tightened around the mask.

His eyes — the same blue you had kissed goodnight, had protected from nightmares — flickered with something raw and unguarded. The kind of pain silence could never contain.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t. Your body went rigid, rooted to the concrete. Every memory of him flooded your mind at once — his first night at the manor, small hands gripping yours through the dark. The gardens he learned to love from you. The library quiet he infused with laughter. Birthday candles. Soft hair beneath your fingers. Blood on Bruce’s gloves the day he—

Your breath shattered.

He died. You mourned. You kept his room exactly as he left it. Your heart buried beside him beneath red dirt and broken promises.

And now he stood alive in front of you. Looking at you like he didn’t know where to run — into your arms or away from them.

The rain soaked your clothes, dripping cold into your bones. It didn’t matter.

Nothing mattered except him.

Bruce took one slow step forward, voice breaking. “Jason—”

Jason’s face twisted with something dark. A storm fiercer than the one pouring overhead. He stepped back, jaw clenched, chest heaving.

“No,” he said, voice low, gravel scraping wounds that hadn’t healed. “Don’t you dare.”

Bruce froze.

You clutched your own arms, not to keep warm — but to keep from falling apart.

“Jason,” you whispered, biting back the tear that burned hottest. “How—how are you—?”

Alive.

That was the word. The impossible word.

He laughed — a sound so bitter it stung. “Is that what you want to know first?”

You blinked at him through rain and shock. “I… I thought you were dead.”

His eyes flickered. Something inside him cracked.

“You weren’t wrong.”

Bruce shut his eyes, jaw tightening as though bracing for a hit.

Pain surged through your chest, sharp as a blade. You reached out a trembling hand, but stopped halfway, afraid touch would shatter him.

Jason’s throat bobbed. His eyes locked on yours — a thousand unspoken thoughts swirling behind them.

“I watched you,” he said quietly.

Your heart stopped. “You… what?”

“Everyone thought I was gone. And I was. For a long time.” His fingers pressed tighter into the helmet. “But I came back. And I watched you. I watched all of you move on.”

His voice cracked on the last two words.

You staggered back as though struck.

Jason saw. And it broke him further.

“You had birthdays,” he continued, breath trembling. “You laughed. You kept living. And I—” His jaw clenched, hard enough to shake. “I wasn’t part of it anymore.”

“Jason,” you choked. “We mourned—”

“No,” he cut in, furious pain flaring behind his eyes. “You buried me. That’s not the same.”

Bruce’s voice was gravel when he finally spoke. “You think we didn’t look for you? You think—”

Jason snapped. “You gave up.”

Bruce flinched as though hit.

“This isn’t—” he tried.

Jason threw the helmet down, the clang deafening against wet concrete. “Don’t you lie to me! Not again!”

You finally moved toward him, slow, deliberate. “Sweetheart…” The endearment slipped out before you could stop it.

He froze. His expression flickered — like a candle in wind.

You reached him. Close enough to see the fine tremor in his jaw. The hollow exhaustion in his cheeks. The fear behind the fury.

You lifted your hand.

He didn’t look at Bruce. He looked at you. Always you.

Your palm brushed his cheek, thumb tracing a scar you hadn’t kissed better. His skin was cold. Rain drenched. Real.

Very real.

“No.” His voice was raw. Scraped open. Not the boy’s voice you remembered. Not a man’s voice yet either. Something resurrected wrong. “Don’t.”

Slowly, he bent to pick up the red helmet. His fingers curled around it like a lifeline.

He looked at you one last time — and in that look was everything: love, loss, want, fear, a child stolen by violence, returned a stranger.

“Happy anniversary, by the way,” his voice cut sharper, crueler, and full of irony.

He vanished into the night — a shadow returning to the shadows that had made him.

You staggered, knees threatening to give. Bruce caught you before you hit the ground, his arms strong, anchoring you to a world that had tilted on its axis.

Your voice tore out of you, strangled:

“He’s alive.”

Bruce held you tighter, forehead resting against your temple. “Yes.”

You turned in his arms, fists gripping his soaked armor, tears mixing with the rain.

“You knew?” It wasn’t accusation — it was agony.

He swallowed hard. “Not until tonight.”

You didn’t return inside right away.

You stood there with Bruce in the rain, both of you soaked to skin and bone — but somehow warmer than you had been in years.

Below, the restaurant lights glowed like lanterns guiding the living.

And above, somewhere hidden in the shadows of Gotham, your son — alive and hurting and surviving — carried a part of you with him into the night.

[gwynfahr]

Every single one of my joints are creaking with happiness because of this update 👁️👄👁️

[v3mpirs]

𝒟𝒾𝒸𝓀 𝒢𝓇𝒶𝓎𝓈𝑜𝓃 𝐹𝒾𝒸 𝑅𝑒𝒸𝓈! ⋆˚࿔

a compilation of some of my favorite dick grayson fics 𑁤

↪︎ jason todd ver! ↪︎tim drake vers!

⋆.𐙚 ̊ frat party fiasco - beer pong turns into strip pong, and things get way out of hand when you end up in the upstairs bathroom with the president, dick grayson. this scandal is far from over, and honestly…the bathroom may never recover. 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @vanillanite

↪︎ more fratboy!dick grayson

𑁤 kappa party - feeling left out at a college costume party, you meet a guy dressed as Nightwing. His costume is so authentic you felt drawn by him, not knowing he’s Dick Grayson himself. 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @rskdoll

𑁤 possessive - possessive frat boy dick grayson getting increasingly more deranged about how he lays his claim on you as the semester wears on. / @uc1wa

𑁤 I got your number - dick grayson always had a chronic case of golden boy-ism for which there was no cure. everyone ever literally loved him, his floor a graveyard of bras left behind by various hookups - until he met you that is. and to his complete and utter dismay, his condition has evolved into something far worse - far more embarrassing. 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @juicykvnture

𑁤 lowk a male manipulator - fratboy!dick, a man of many… talents. 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @killakalx

⋆.𐙚 ̊ crave - the locals in the village had long told that the count and his family who were living in the dark castle on the hill are vampires. so you only had yourself to blame for not heeding their warning. / @cherryite

↪︎ more vampire!dick grayson

𑁤 the teeth you know - the war between the humans and the vampires has lasted for a year now. when you fled gotham, you thought that would be the last time you'd see the vampire king and the love of your life, dick grayson. You were wrong. 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @sanguineterrain

𑁤 tear me open - your vampire boyfriend is feeling a bit… peckish. It’s not his fault his girlfriend is lying there looking delicious! 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @juicykvnture

𑁤 bite me (pretty please) - your best friend dick grayson is a vampire & being the stubborn individual he is he refuses to feed from you... well until now! / @nocturnellee

ghostface!dick grayson

𑁤 scream for me - the mask was his secret. but you were always his obsession. 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @iydiamartinx

𑁤 ghostface - yandere ghostface au! / @fxckn-sxck-fr

𑁤 just like the movies ft. wally west - when the adrenaline after fighting crime gets too much, you offer yourself up to your boyfriends for some stress relief 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @froggibus

⋆.𐙚 ̊ cherry red - you weren’t sure when dick had become part of your getting ready routine — but somehow, you couldn’t imagine it without him anymore. / @fromrory

⋆.𐙚 ̊ bite me! - having dated you for two years and known you since childhood, Dick was already used to you being somewhat obsessed with biting him. / @snorinqfawn

⋆.𐙚 ̊ scary? my god you’re divine - the vessel of enchantress is now part of the team, the league thought it was better like that, better having her on their side than against them and someone has to teach her how to control the witch. they all know who you are, or what you are, but robin is the only one who doesn't see you as a monster, he sees through you in that persistent way of his and you can't ignore him even though you want to. / @njghtiee

⋆.𐙚 ̊ bsf!dick grayson - bsf!dick grayson and his wonderful obsession with you. / @slvthrs

↪︎ bonus! more bsf!dick grayson 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @killakalx

↪︎ bonus! lowk similar dynamic 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @killakalx

⋆.𐙚 ̊ coming back to - in which, dick grayson can't stand the idea of being your ex any longer. dick grayson x ex-gf!reader 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @pluvoia

⋆.𐙚 ̊ n’ for dessert, I’ll suck ur teeth! - making out with dick grayson is like a partynextdoor song — slow, intoxicating, soaked in rhythm and heat. / @navyhaze

⋆.𐙚 ̊ ignorance is bliss - you know your boyfriend, dick is mad, purposely ignoring him isn't always the best idea... especially when your boyfriend loves to take his frustration out sexually... and you knew you were in for a long night when you came home after ignoring him all day... 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @murdock-slvt

⋆.𐙚 ̊ optimization needed - when dick grayson finds out he's not eating you out in the way he thinks you deserve, he wants to change that. 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @cloudscars

↪︎ pt2! dick grayson is a munch 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @cloudscars

⋆.𐙚 ̊ sweetheart - maybe sometimes sweetheart does depend on dick too much 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @blondekisses

⋆.𐙚 ̊ nintendhoe ft.wally west - when dick & wally have a little… competition 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @juicykvnture

⋆.𐙚 ̊ help out a good friend - dick grayson is your good friend (not best, but good friend), and what kind of good friend would he be if he let you be so sexually frustrated because of your loser boyfriend? 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @murdock-slvt

⋆.𐙚 ̊ camboy!dick grayson - whose notorious for being a walking sex appeal; his pretty face fanned with long, girly lashes, paired with his toned body that would make even greek gods feel ashamed. 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @navyhaze

↪︎ bonus! more camboy!dick grayson • pt2! 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @juicykvnture

↪︎ double whammy! more camboy!dick grayson 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @celestigasm

⋆.𐙚 ̊ risky temptations - you knew you should have left more space when tailing nightwing. while he might have been in his civies, that didn’t make him any less aware, which is why you’re not tied up 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @softhandz

⋆.𐙚 ̊ jealous roommate - you are Dick’s roommate and have been asked to go on a date with a guy. What you didn’t expect was for him to show up at the restaurant unannounced. / @kizubow

↪︎ bonus! more jealous!dick grayson / @noodlie-reads

⋆.𐙚 ̊ one of the girls - when you and your girlfriend go to a strip club things get heated 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @loonatears

⋆.𐙚 I could stare at your back all day - aka when you and your ex had a messy breakup… / @cheymidnights

↪︎ part 2!

⋆.𐙚 accidents happen - technically, you couldn't be blamed for thinking dick wouldn't get just a tad angry at you for touching his escrima sticks, right? I mean, you'd just been curious, you waved them around a little and now - 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @flashroid

⋆.𐙚 I need a minute - hockey just became your favourite sport after #10 Dick Grayson would not stop flirting with you the whole time. / @pookalicious-hq

⋆.𐙚 congratulations on your new improvements - You knew Dick Grayson when you were kids, back when he was Robin and you were the journalist’s daughter sneaking after stories you weren’t supposed to. He was awkward, gangly, more earnest than smooth, and you had a crush anyway. Then you left Gotham, and life moved on. Years later, you’re back in the city with a press badge of your own, chasing leads and running headfirst into trouble. Except this time, it’s not Robin who finds you, It’s Nightwing. Taller. Broader. Unfairly charming. / @cursedheartsclub

⋆.𐙚 round whatever - Dick Grayson is a chronic head tilter. It's especially bad when you're underneath him, naked and sweaty from the way he's worked you up and over the edge so many times. 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @compersion

⋆.𐙚 summer roommate - you’d never met him before he moved in. your friend mentioned her brother needed a place to crash, swore he was chill, quiet, harmless. harmless was a lie. / @celestigasm

⋆.𐙚 ̊ academic rivals series! - you and dick grayson started as rivals, the kind everyone whispered about in class. top students, top of your year, neck and neck in every assignment. you couldn’t stand him: the perfect smile, the natural ease, the way he never seemed to struggle. and he found your sharp retorts and stubbornness endlessly entertaining. when a teacher paired you together for a major research project, it was war. he teased, you rolled your eyes. he smiled through everything, you matched him with pure determination. but somewhere between late-night notes and quiet library corners, things began to shift. / @njghtiee

⋆.𐙚 ̊ deprivation - in which, dick grayson has got a new-found ego; so of course, you decide to fuck it out of him. 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @pluvoia

⋆.𐙚 ̊ worth the risk - Being the Police Chief’s daughter means every cop in the precinct treats you like you’re made of glass—except Officer Dick Grayson. He’s smart, charming, infuriatingly handsome…and completely off-limits. / @angiegotham

⋆.𐙚 ̊ when fan fiction comes to life - dick finds your dirty little fanfic and brings it to life 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @celestigasm

⋆.𐙚 ̊ already? - “i’m close.” “already?” — ft. dick grayson, aka 'nightwing' 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @kkai-zen

⋆.𐙚 ̊ chemicals hit like a drug - aka dick takes matters into his own hands 𝓃𝓈𝒻𝓌 / @mostly-imagines

⋆.𐙚 ̊ date crasher - dick grayson swears he’s not in love with you. he just happens to find an unreasonable amount of joy in ruining your dates. purely for entertainment, of course. / @kthologue

⋆.𐙚 ̊ lightning strikes twice - The data indicating the average person experiences 3.4 attacks annually is misleading. You- who seem to find yourself in the wrong place at the wrong time several times a month- represents a significant deviation from the norm and should not be counted in the dataset. Or; in which Nightwing accidentally develops feelings for the anxious woman whose rescue has become part of his regular nightly routine by this point. / @silverlullabies

as you can tell a lotttt of this is just pure smut but I mean, god forbid a girl creates a list while she’s ovulating :3 fanfics aside nightwing is such an amazing character I love him so much ༯

[danidoodels]

goodnight everypony

[demonius-darkblade]

hate how they forced bugs bunny into anti-weed propaganda in the 90s, as if bugs bunny wouldn’t love smoking weed 

[clayboy2000-deactivated20210427]

To be perfectly fair, bugs bunny would also love taking money for starring in anti-weed propaganda and then using said money to buy weed

[violencevoyager-deactivated2022]

bugs bunny is not real 

[zvaigzdelasas]

[ladyshrike]

Woke up at 4 am thinking about Clark losing control of his power to fly when you kiss him. In public. And you, being chronically online, can only think of one thing to say.

You: [Kisses Clark while on a walk through the park at night]

Clark: [Red faced and dopey] Golly [Floats off the ground with you in his arms.]

Singular bystander in the park: [Terrified gasp]

You: [Tired. Pregnant. Half asleep.] Wait! We can't be raptured! I have a concert in October!

The bystander probably passes out or something, I dunno.

[gwynfahr]

The funniest thing ever

[inbred-eater]

oh adrian progressive even in a racist universe chase, how i love you

[gwynfahr]

Like I don't anyone knows how far I'd go for that man

[fairyysoup]

hotel room service

(repost)

pairing(s): adrian chase x fem!reader

summary: An off night, a hotel room, a bottle of peach Jim Beam, and Vigilante. What could go wrong?

words: 9.8k

cw: explicit, smut, piv sex, oral sex (f receiving), some dubcon elements, shower sex, praise kink, sub!adrian, technically switch!adrian but (gestures vaguely), alcohol consumption, drunk sex, blood kink, mentions of contraception, cowgirl position, choking, gagging, friends to lovers, character study disguised as smut, james gunn said the visor is prescription and i took that as canon, reader uses prescription lenses, yes i did name this after the pitbull song

a/n: we are so fucking back

ALL MY WORKS ARE 18+ MINORS DNI

“Working hours” with this black ops group are loosely defined at best, and entirely nonexistent at worst. And don’t even get started on pay, because you think at this point that you’re only getting comped whatever the pay is for your cost of living, and that’s only really when you’re on the clock. They’ll pay for the hotel room and sometimes the food, but besides that, you’re on your own.

But, back to those working hours. You don’t know when they stopped, but maybe it was around the time your roomie decided to crack open a bottle of whisky and pour out half of it for you into one of the plastic solo cups they provide with the coffee pot. God knows you’re not working anymore, you’re just sort of sitting idle while he rambles about the room, gesticulating with the bottle. Like he does.

(Plus, you don’t think he’s even being paid for this? Adrian is just here for the fun and because he’s available, and the rest of the team just let him tag along because he’s useful. The thought makes you smirk a little bit.)

You admire his profile as he talks, one finger pressed to your smiling lips as your eyes trail him back and forth, thinking he might eventually hypnotize you. He’s so… expressive. And he has dimples and curly hair, which you’ve always been a sucker for. He hasn’t even taken off his suit; blue on silver on black, with a red visor on the mask discarded on the table. You had watched him remove it, and carefully tried to hide the fact that you were staring as he pulled his wire-rimmed glasses out of a hidden pocket.

You’re very pointedly staring now, sizing him up like your next fucking meal (alcohol does that to you), and Adrian keeps on blathering in one long spiel, pacing in circles like hasn’t even noticed your hungry gaze (alcohol does that to him).

“Is that prescription?” you ask, cutting him off in the middle of his sentence, which you’d barely been paying attention to. Something something Twilight, something something cultural reset.

Adrian stops pacing, looking at you with a deer-in-headlights expression. “Huh?”

You nod at the mask laying on the table by the door. “The visor. Is it prescription?” 

He swivels to look at the mask, and then back to you with an almost bashful laugh. “Uh… yeah?”

“That’s sick.” 

“Really?” Dimples. You take another sip of your whisky to calm yourself, and it burns at the back of your throat. Objectively, you should not be feeling this way about your pseudo-coworker, who also happens to be somewhat of a lunatic. But, y’know, he’s… sweet. To you. Which is the odd thing, but you’ve gone beyond worrying about the details at this point. You’re hunting alien butterfly creatures that live in people’s brains, you can get past a couple character flaws.

“I mean, yeah.” You lick your lips, which have taken on the flavor of the peach liqueur in the whisky. “I wear prescription lenses, too, but they’re a bitch to keep clean on the job. If I could afford prescription hardware, I would. Good on you.”

“Yeah, I mean… yeah, it is fucking cool, thank you!” He grins, his eyes crinkling at the corners and making you clench your jaw with how badly you want to reach out and kiss him long and hard at that exact moment. “I was starting to think no one else would notice how genius it is. Y’know, I don’t even think Peacemaker’s noticed, which is totally not very best friend-like of him, but it’s fine, I’m sure he’ll come around eventually, the guy constantly has a lot of shit on his plate. Like I remember one time, me and him got stuck in a Winnebago that was rolling downhill toward a cliff like something out of Looney Tunes because some idiot crack dealer locked us in there with his load, and-”

He’s pacing again, and the amber colored liquid in the square bottle he grips by the neck sloshes against the glass as he continues waving it around emphatically. And you’ve zoned out again, because now you’re thinking about his hands, and how nice they’d feel on your body. You’ve seen him beat the shit out of people, you know he’s packing some major force in those fists, but you haven’t felt them on your own skin, or had the experience of having them wrapped around your throat for yourself. 

“-then, y’know, Eagly’s a fucking badass, I don’t know if you’ve seen him in action, but the little dude can take a guy out in like one peck. Like do not get caught on the wrong end of those talons is all I’m saying. Anyways, he swooped in and yanked the fucking wheel, so the Winnebago flipped. I mean, can you imagine! A bald eagle rolling a camper. That shit’s gotta be, like, legendary-”

And his quads as he walks, Jesus Christ. You’ve never been super partial to burly, buff guys (sorry Chris), but there’s something to be said for muscle in the right places. Adrian’s legs are nice, you can tell just by the way the fabric of his pants stretches around them when he turns, and fuck his ass is so tight. You nearly salivate just staring at it, thinking about how much you’d love to dig your heels into it, or squeeze it to urge him on as he fucks you. 

Your eyes snap down to your solo cup of whisky, and you frown. When did you drink half of it?

“-but like I’m sure you know Eagly pretty well because he loves you, I can tell. He kind of scooches closer every time you sit near him, it’s really cute actually, I mean, I would scooch closer whenever you sat near me too except I feel like you’d punch me in the dick, good thing my suit’s got a reinforced crotch-”

“Wait, what?” You blink up at him, your brain sort of fizzling out and then rebooting as you stare at him. What did he say? 

Adrian doesn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, the guy who made it was like, ‘That makes no sense, you’re gonna have the worst time trying to take a piss in this,’ and I said, ‘No, dude, have you ever been karate kicked in the nuts before? Shit hurts.’ I still had to pay extra-”

“No, no, what was that shit about scooching closer? To me?” You squint at him. “Babe, are you trying to tell me something?”

He blushes. You know he’s joked about not feeling emotions like other people do, but you wonder how true that really is, because he goes beet fucking red like he’s having trouble breathing as he stares down at his shoes. “I, uh- well, I mean, yeah, I’d scooch closer to you. Theoretically. If- if you wanted me to. And if you weren’t going to punch me in the dick.”

“Why would I punch you in the dick?”

“I don’t know, it’s like… it’s an understandable reaction to someone getting in someone else’s personal space!”

“No, it really isn’t…”

“Well, how was I supposed to know you wouldn’t punch me in the dick?”

You throw up your hand in an exasperated gesture. “When have you ever seen me punch someone in the dick?”

He screws up his face. “UM, I don’t know, you punched Peacemaker in the dick!”

“What? When?”

“When he tried lifting you onto the truck that one time!” 

“That was a misunderstanding, I kneed him because he didn’t give me a heads up!”

“But you did it!”

“Well, the last thing I would want to do to your dick is punch it, all right?”

You both stop and stare at each other for a long moment. You think you might have stopped breathing, too. Yeah, you are definitely tipsy at this point, but you raise a slightly shaking hand to take a casual sip of your drink, as if you aren’t staring at him with bulging eyes like you’re possessed.

He opens his mouth and closes it a few times before he comes out with a response. “Okay.”

You blink. “Okay?”

He shrugs. “Yeah, okay. I mean, what other stuff would you do to my dick?”

“Uh… stuff.” You jerkily stand, nearly sloshing your drink as you try to get your bearings. You set the cup down on the bedside table and turn to look at him with the most awkward, pin-straight posture you could possibly muster, like a high schooler trying to pretend they aren’t drunk in front of their parents. “I’m going to take a shower now. Yeah. I am. I’m going to do that.”

“Oh. Okay.” Adrian looks down at the bottle in his hand, and then shuffles a bit to the side so that you can pass him.

“I mean, unless you wanted to shower first?” You pause at the end of your respective bed, and turn to see him turning down the covers on his own by the window. “What are you doing?”

“I’m getting in bed,” he says flatly, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He reaches up and undoes a latch on his armor that frees the chestplate, and lifts it over his head in one swift move, leaving him in his tight fitting black undershirt.

You stare at him, scatterbrained until you manage to scowl at him, and the two knives he wears crossed against his lower back. “You’re going to sleep with all your weapons?”

“Yeah.”

“With all the dirt and sweat and fucking blood from fighting?”

“Yeah.” 

“You can’t just… you can’t just get in bed with your outside clothes on, dude!” you splutter, leaning your thigh against the end of the mattress before you, and slow your speech carefully as you declare, “It’s… unsanitary.”

“Oh, and who are you, the sleep police?” Adrian turns to sneer at you. “I thought you were going to take a shower.”

“Well I was, but that was before I knew you weren’t planning on it!” You throw your hand out at him. “Why?”

“Because! If I go to sleep with wet hair it dries all weird, okay? Get off my dick!”

“I’m sure you’ll look just as pretty regardless, Adrian,” you tut condescendingly at him, rolling your eyes as you turn on your heels toward the bathroom. “Do what you want, or fucking join me if you change your mind, I don’t care.”

You don’t register the full weight of your words until you turn on the tap. But, by that time, you also don’t get to see the way Adrian stares at the door to the bathroom like you’ve just presented him with the key to the city.

You very rarely opt for lukewarm showers, but you certainly do now. With the way your blood is humming through your veins like electricity, and you feel hot just from the sight of Adrian’s muscles in that tight fucking shirt, you feel a cold shower is in order. Well, colder, anyways. 

The water pressure is complete bullshit, of course. It pathetically trickles out, and it takes longer than usual for your body to get completely soaked. In that time, you lean against the tile and hold your head in your hands as the water drips down your face. How the fuck are you supposed to sleep in the same room as this guy? Between the way you’re just aching to jump his bones, and his inability to stop talking, you don’t think it’s a possibility tonight.

You wonder what he would sound like when you ride him. You wonder if he would finally shut up, or if he would switch to talking to you like a lover instead of a drinking buddy. You wonder if he would beg, or if he’s more dominant than that. 

You’re imagining his head between your thighs. You’re imagining what he’d look like with your hands tangled in his hair. You’re imagining the feeling of his mouth on your skin, the calloused planes of his palms on your breasts and beneath your thighs. You’re… you’re shaking.

The white shower curtain rips open, and Adrian steps in beside you, naked as the day he was born. “Hey, can you pass the soap?”

“What the fuck?” You turn your head to look at him with a bewildered expression, simply refusing to tear your eyes away from his face because you do not want to cross that line and have the image of his dick imprinted in your brain while you try to get to sleep tonight. “Adrian, what are you doing?”

“Well, you said to join you if I changed my mind.” He shrugs, his smile the absolute picture of innocence, but his eyes still rake slowly down your body before finding your face again. 

You blink, searching for a proper response to that. His eyes are green. Jesus Christ, that’s three for three: dimples, curly hair, and green eyes. He’s trying to kill you. 

“I was being sar-” you cut yourself off with a sigh, “yeah, you know what, I did say that. Shit. Fucking… okay. Whatever. Here.” You fumble with the tiny complimentary body wash tube and thrust it toward him. “Go apeshit.”

“You have a really great ass by the way.”

“Adrian.”  

“What? You do. I’m just being honest. I’m not even saying that because this is the first time I’ve seen you naked, I always thought your ass was nice, there just wasn’t a good time to say it.”

Your face is burning. You turn your back on him and try your hardest not to clap your hands over your eyes or do something equally embarrassing. You don’t think Adrian is even fazed by any of this; he wasn’t wearing his glasses, either, and you don’t know how strong his prescription is. You imagine pretty strong, if he needs it in his visor. Maybe there’s a good chance he can’t see the exact details of your tits. Maybe-

He touches your shoulder, and you feel lather running down your back as he starts massaging circles into your skin.

“Are you washing me?” you wheeze, your voice coming out an octave higher, and you really do cover your face again this time. Your heartbeat pounds in your ears, and you can’t focus on anything other than the touch of his hand on your shoulder blade.

“Uh, yeah? I wash your back, you wash mine, right?” He sounds cheery and completely content with everything that’s happening and, despite the sheer oddness of all of it, you don’t really want him to stop. You guess that’s why you haven’t told him to get the hell out, yet.

Maybe you’re just as much of a lunatic as him. “‘Scratch,’ Adrian. It’s fucking ‘scratch.’” 

He pauses. “What?”

“It’s ‘I scratch your back, you scratch mine.’”

“That makes no fucking sense.” He shakes his head in your periphery, his hand resuming its circular motion against your back, moving across to your other shoulder. You feel the soft, wet glide like a molten lava trail.

“Of course it makes sense! Why would it be ‘wash?’”

“Why wouldn’t it be ‘wash?’”

“Because it’s about doing your friends favors,” you argue in a wobbly, strained voice as you shiver while his fingers slide down your spine. It raises goosebumps on your skin, despite the heat in your veins and the cool of the water. “Friends don’t wash each other’s backs, genius.”

“So, we’re not friends?”

His hand pauses again just at the curve of your lower back, where it extends down into your tailbone. You bite your lip, and you can feel his eyes on you, the touch of his gaze almost as real as his hand is. Your thighs clench together involuntarily. You simpering little… weak, desperate thing, you are not going to beg for him to touch you. That’s not it. That’s not how this should go.

But, you could turn around and touch him, too. You could probably kiss him, if you were feeling really adventurous. He just basically implied that he wouldn’t be opposed to fucking you, right? That was where the conversation had been going earlier, if you hadn’t been such a pussy. Neither of you is nearly as subtle as you think you are.

You manage to chew your lip enough to tear a gash in it, and salty, coppery blood hits your tongue. You’re losing it, standing on the precipice of something way bigger than the two of you. You’re just an inch away from becoming more than just friends with Adrian, if you don’t reel it in quickly. Your hand comes up to slam against the wall when his fingers, which seem to be discontented to remain idle, start tracing little shapes on your lower back. A star. A diamond. A heart.

“N… No, I- I mean, we are. But I don’t think we’re going to be, if you keep it up.”

He grunts carelessly. “I’m having a hard time not keeping it up, really.”

“What do you mean?” You turn around, and his hand glides across your lower back and to your hip, because he refuses to stop touching you now (not that you want him to stop, either, if you’re being honest with yourself). Your eyes flick down, and you know exactly what he means, because he’s hard as a rock. 

And also thick, and long, and veiny, but hey. What did you expect?

Your eyes linger on his erection for a long time, and drag your gaze slowly from the burst of dark hair at the base of his cock, up the line of his torso and to his chest. His pale skin is riddled with little scars here and there, from small injuries that weren’t serious enough to slow him down. He has a faint spray of freckles on his shoulders, suggesting that he spends at least some time in the sun. It makes you inordinately flustered to think of him doing some sort of outdoor activities to get that toned body of his. 

You clear your throat as you find his gaze again. “Next dumb question,” you say, and he gives you a wide-eyed, vaguely awestruck look that makes you way more confident than it ought to. “Are you gonna fuck me, Adrian?”

His eyelashes flutter. His cheeks are painted with that sweet pink blush again, like he’s been entirely oblivious to the fact that he’s had you melting for him since he cracked open the bottle of Jim Beam. “Do you think that’s a good idea?”

“I think it’s a fucking fantastic idea, do you?”  

“Yeah, I do.” And he grabs you by the face to kiss you, and crowds you back against the wall. You give a surprised yelp into his open mouth, your arms coming up to wrap around his neck as your back hits the cold tile. He grunts and brushes his soap covered fingers across your cheeks. “Did you bite your lip?”

“Yeah.”

“...Was that because of me?”

You whimper weakly as he slowly, and very purposefully, traces the length of your bottom lip with his tongue like he’s savoring the taste of your blood. “Yeah.”

“That’s so fucking hot.”

He yanks you up off of your feet, making you squeak and hold in a nervous laugh. Your leg bumps the faucet handle, and the water turns ice cold just as Adrian scrambles to hook your legs around his waist. 

“Shit.” Adrian hisses and smacks the wall beside your hip once or twice before he finds the faucet, because he doesn’t stop kissing you. He’s sloppy and rushed and overexcited, but at least he gets the water running warm against as he presses you up against the wall. “I’ve never done this here, have you?”

“Shower sex? No.” You bite his lip as he hitches you up by the back of your thighs, and he groans as his hips jerk up toward yours. “But I think you’re doing a good job.”

“Wait, fuck. Do we need, like, a condom…?” He blinks at you with a glassy look in his eyes. 

“IUD. I have- it’s all good, you’re fine.” You knock your head back against the wall with a whimper high in your throat as he brushes his cock against your entrance. You can feel the world spinning as you tangle your fingers in his wet hair, giving it a small but sharp tug. “Now, if you don’t fuck me I’m gonna-”

You choke when he drives the full length of his cock into you, pushing your hips back against the wall. Your nails scratch down his neck and across his shoulder blades as he splits you open, your legs tightening around his waist while simultaneously trying to spread wider to accommodate him. Adrian spits a curse into your neck, his teeth grazing a vein there as he ruts up into you, filling you so completely that a cry dies in your throat. 

“God, fuck, Adrian,” you sob toward the ceiling, only too aware of him moaning loudly against your skin. He feels better than you had imagined, stretching you out so perfectly that your toes curl as you try your hardest to draw him forward with your legs alone.

“I knew you’d be perfect,” you catch him whispering into the crook of your neck, just barely audible over the trickle of water over your head.

He doesn’t even give you time to adjust before he starts pistoning his hips into yours, jolting you up the wall. Your skin squeaks against the wet tile, and his grunts echo in the curve of your neck. Tears might actually be streaming down your face, but you wouldn’t be able to tell them apart from the warm water coming from the showerhead.

Adrian’s hand comes up to brace against the wall beside your head, and he surprises you. “You really think I’m pretty?” He asks with such a genuine note of hope in his voice that you think he must be serious. 

“I think you’re fucking gorgeous,” you breathe, whining when he nips at your jaw with his teeth. You interrupt your train of thought with a series of hoarse cries, because Adrian picks up the pace with less precision, and more just forceful thrusts that drive all the way to the end of you and make you see stars, regardless.

“You’re the most perfect person in the world and I wish I could paint because the only thing I’d be painting is just you over and over and over-” 

He’s blathering into your shoulder, his mouth brushing your skin as it moves and his hips slamming yours back against the wall hard enough that you’re definitely going to be feeling it in the morning. Every bit of desire you have for him surges up inside you like an inferno catching on, like every stroke he makes is stoking that fire within you.

“-so pretty everyone wants you I can’t believe you would let me touch you or even kiss you but you’re letting me do this to you and it’s all I’ve wanted to do since I first saw you-”

It occurs to you to tell him that you’d let him do anything he wants to you at this point, as long as he just doesn’t stop fucking you- but that’s yet another line you refuse to cross for the sake of self preservation. You’re already drunk, and confessing the true scope of your feelings to him in this state would just be a recipe for disaster. 

Oh god, but he’s like a reckoning. You shake your head to compose yourself and scratch your nails along his neck before you take his face in your hands and draw him up to you. His pupils were already blown out, but you think they nearly eclipse his irises when his hips falter and he sucks in a sharp breath. His dark hair is thoroughly drenched, and water drips down his face in little rivulets that you trace with your fingers just before you draw him to your lips.

You feel his small moan vibrate on your lips, and that’s enough. Your legs spasm, and your orgasm suddenly snaps within you like a rubber band, every muscle in your core tightening down on his cock as you see a burst of white behind your closed eyelids. It snuck up on you just as much as it did him.

“Holy fuck-” Adrian loudly gasps against your lips with a startled jolt of his hips, his full weight crushing you up against the wall. His nose nuzzles yours, so intimate in a way that you hadn’t expected from him, and with a few shuddering huffs of breath you feel him come with a rush of warmth deep inside you.

You’re floating somewhere above awareness when he slouches forward, his forehead resting against yours and his eyes closed as he takes deep, steadying breaths. It takes you a moment to realize that he’s just holding you, with his fingers digging into your thighs like he’s just trying to ground himself in your body.

You raise a shaking hand to smooth his wet hair back from his face. “Earth to Adrian. You still with me, babe?”

He grumbles something entirely non-coherent directly in front of your face, and blinks his eyes groggily open at you. 

“The alcohol’s catching up with you, huh?”

He nods.

“Guess I’m washing your back, anyways. C’mon.” You wiggle out of his grip, and you’re only too thankful that you’re smushed up against the shower wall, or else you may have easily slipped and ate shit on the tile. The alcohol is fucking with your head quite a bit now, too, and your movements are a little jerky and uncoordinated as you try to help him get cleaned up.

He’s uncharacteristically quiet. The rest of the shower takes place in complete silence, actually, with the exception of the little grunt he makes when you urge him to bend down so you can get his hair for him. You catch him looking a little dazed as you turn off the water, and he gives you an unfocused stare when you toss a towel at him. You wonder if you actually succeeded in frying the guy’s brains just by fucking him.

But then, back in the room as you clumsily dig through your bag to pull out a night shirt and a pair of underwear, Adrian shuffles directly to his bed and tosses his towel aside before clambouring into it, bare ass to the wind. He flops down face first, and shoves his feet under the turned down comforter.

“Adrian… what are you doing?” You say for what feels like the millionth time this evening. 

“‘M going to bed,” he drawls into the pillow. His entire body shakes as he hiccups, and then turns his head to the side to look up at you with his big green doe-eyes that make your heart do a somersault in your ribcage. “You should tooootally join me. There’s-” hiccup- “lotsa room. We could go again.”

You blink at him as you semi-stagger, semi-walk toward the bed, stooping to pick up pieces of his uniform strewn across the floor as he had, presumably, just ripped everything off as he made his way to the bathroom. “Mm, no, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Uh, you said it was a great idea,” he argues as you toss his clothes into a pile at the end of the bed.

“That was before the whisky kicked in and we were both staggering… fuckin… drunk-” you accidentally whack your foot against the corner of the bed and bite your lip as you fight not to crumble to the floor. “One of us has to be responsible.”

“I’m-” hiccup- “responstable.”

“Uh-huh.” You stop as your eyes land on the mostly empty Jim Beam bottle on the bedside table. You’re almost positive it had been at least quarter full when you left him to go take a shower. “Adrian, did you drink all that?”

He blinks his eyes open and follows your pointing finger to the bottle. “Oh, yeah. Hhhuuuhh… had to… I lost the cap so we can’t keep it.” When you march forward to snatch it off the table, he grunts dismissively. “Gotta… get rid of it.”

“Guess that’s why you’re worse off than me.” You shake your head and drop the entire bottle into the trash bin. “Aren’t you gonna put something on to sleep in?”

“I don’t have anything.”

You snap your head towards his sprawling, naked form. Your eyes linger on his ass for way too long. “You didn’t bring a single thing to wear?”

“Why… why would I bring a change of clothes to kill bad guys?” 

“I don’t fuckin’ know! Anonymity!” 

He grumbles into the pillow, “I have a mask.”

“Fuck the mask. You can’t sleep in the mask.”

“Sure I can. I fuck in the mask, I can sleep in it. S’a free country.”

You blink, your eyes flicking between Adrian and the mask on the table. “Dude, you fuck in that thing?”

“Hell yeah I do. I could fuck you in the mask. Could do it right now. Go get the mask.” Despite the conviction of his words, he’s slurring them, and his face is still pressed into his pillow as he lies motionless on the bed. 

“I… don’t think that’s gonna happen tonight.” You sigh as you toe forward and grab the end of his comforter, drawing it up over his body. “We’re both way too drunk. We probably… probably shouldn’t have…”

Adrian flops over to look up at you as you, essentially, tuck him in. There’s a note of hurt in his voice when he mumbles, “You regret it?”

You pause, staring down at his expression of confusion and betrayal. Do you regret it? You can’t deny that you hadn’t been hesitant to have sex with him for a litany of reasons- one being that you work with him, and another being that he’s a loose cannon on the best of days. Not exactly relationship material, you think. 

Or, you thought, but now he’s gazing up at you with these wide, dumbfounded eyes, and you’re tucking the comforter up beneath his chin, and he turns his face down and kisses your knuckle even though he looks mildly hurt. And yes, you liked the sex very much. You liked it so much that you can’t trust yourself not to do it again if you don’t shuffle off to your own bed immediately.

“No,” you tell him firmly, combing your fingers through his wet hair as you draw back. “I don’t regret it, but I think we both need to sleep this off.”

“Okay,” Adrian says quietly, his expression relaxing, but his arms come out from under the comforter and he reaches for you with grabby-hands. “Sleep with me?”

You catch one of his hands and give it a gentle squeeze. “G’night, Adrian.”

You hear him sigh in disappointment when you shut off the bedside lamp. His hands audibly plop down onto the mattress as he rasps, “Night.”

You wake from a dreamless sleep sometime in the early hours of the morning, and your throat is bone dry. Smacking at the nightstand a couple times, your phone manages to illuminate and tell you that the time is only 1:30. 

You blink sleep away from your eyes and try to see through the dark as you stumble into the combination vanity, closet, and kitchenette. You knew you brought a water bottle or two, it can’t be that hard to find-

“Hey, what’cha doing?”

You hardly even startle at this point. You’re slowly becoming acclimated to the idea that Adrian is just constantly awake and witness to your every move, which isn’t as disconcerting to you as one might think. “I’m looking for the water. Did you see where I put it?”

“Uhhhhh mini-fridge?”

You reach blindly under the counter and yank the little fridge open, once again smacking around until your hand lands on the shape of a water bottle. “You want some?”

“Yeah, you could spit it into my open mouth-”

“Adrian.”

“What? It would be fucking sexy.” Adrian grunts, and the light clicks on from the main room. Then, he wolf-whistles just before you straighten up from where he’d caught you, bent over in front of the fridge. “Y’know, I was right. You have a really great ass.”

You grumble a half-hearted thanks under your breath as you approach his bedside and thrust a water bottle at him. “I see you’ve sobered up a bit.”

He waves a hand at you dismissively. “Pshh, I wasn’t that drunk.”

“You were drooling all over your pillow.”

“Maybe I always do that.”

“Yeah, okay.” There’s a long pause, wherein you perch on the edge of your mattress and chug an obscene amount of water. Adrian watches your throat work until he, too, succumbs and lifts his bottle to his lips. 

An uncomfortably heavy silence settles between you two, only permeated by the quiet sipping of water and the cheap motel AC unit kicking in. It’s entirely unlike him to be silent and still for more than a couple of seconds, but he’s just sitting there looking despondent and running a hand back and forth over the white comforter, periodically lifting his bottle to take another drink. He doesn’t even really look tired, and you wonder if he ever got to sleep in the first place.

You know that the tension in the air is so thick because you have yet to address the giant fucking elephant in the room; and to address it is to have the most awkward and intimate conversation you can possibly imagine with Adrian, of all people. As much as you love his sense of humor, the idea of baring your soul to him is almost enough to have you running into the bathroom again, and locking the damn door this time.

But, in true Adrian fashion (because damn it all to hell if he ever lets something be), he beats you to the punch. “So, are you? Sober now, I mean.”

You chew your lip again, and reopen the gash you’d put there before. “Yeah. I am.”

He nods, pursing his lips as he looks down at his lap. He was right, his hair does dry… well, not weird, but just rather unruly if he goes to bed with it wet. Dark curls stick up at odd angles, a cowlick on the back of his crown standing straight up and begging you to come over and smooth it down. More curls fall across his forehead and nearly touch the top of his glasses. He blinks slowly, and severe shadows from his lashes cross his face in the golden light of the bedside lamp. You snap your gaze away, the hairs on the back of your neck standing on end.

“So… was that a lie? About just needing to sober up?”

Your thumbs twitch on your bottle. To tell the truth, or to lie? You feel like your mouth just stays dry, no matter how much water you drink. “Look, Adrian, I-”

“Also, I have, like, no pride and a ridiculously thick skull, or- or whatever Peacemaker calls it. So, you don’t have to beat around the bush or anything for my sake, you probably won’t even hurt me-”

“Adrian, I like you too fucking much, don’t you get it?” 

That fully shuts him up, and he locks his jaw as he fixes you with a startled look. You suck your bottom lip through your teeth, perturbed at the taste of blood still apparent on it, and dig your heels into the carpet. 

“The last thing I want to do is hurt you. You’re… one of my closest friends, all right? But I’m afraid that if we keep going like this, I’m not going to want to be friends anymore. And I think I’ll fall in love with you really quickly, and that might be a really bad idea for both of us. You just…” You shake your head, your voice dipping in volume as you stare bashfully down at your feet, “you have no clue how much I want you all the time, baby.”

“Why would it be a bad idea?” he asks you plainly.

“What?” You pick your eyes up off the floor to squint at him, finding him staring at you challengingly, a flush already on his cheeks. 

“I mean, honestly. Name a single reason why it would be a bad idea. Bet’cha can’t.” Adrian throws his empty water bottle across the room, and it makes a gentle tap against the side of the television before skittering to the floor. “I think we’d fuck like rabbits and then I’d wake up every morning and make you pancakes, because I’m really fucking good at those, but you’d have to make the eggs because I always burn them. And I think we’d kick ass together as a cool superhero power couple, and I’d carry your gun for you if you got tired, and I could show you where all my hidden knives are. And you could also do anything you wanted to me, like any time, and I’d be totally fine with it and probably also turned on by it, as long as you call me baby like you just did.”

“Are you serious?”

“Oh, yeah, I’m super hard right now. Probably should’ve warned you, I have a thing about that-”

“No, smartass, I mean are you serious about the other stuff?” You tilt your head at him. “I never really took you for the domestic sort.”

“Tsch- yeah! I’m, like, super domestic. I’m like one of those domestic...ated... cats?” He trails off as you step forward and crawl onto his bed, up his legs to straddle his lap.

“Cats?” you repeat with a raised eyebrow.

“I’m… I…” Adrian’s eyes flick across your face, down to your shirt and bare thighs on either side of his, your knees pressing the comforter taut across his lap and (very prominent) erection. “I don’t know, I have trouble thinking when you’re on top of me-”

Nodding, you reach forward and take his glasses by the wire earpieces, and pull them from his face. He goes stock still, his lips parted in awe as you slide them onto your own face, and give him a sweet smile. “I like your glasses. They look good on you.”

“They look good on you.” His voice cracks. “Can you see in them?”

You blink at him, and then turn your head to look across the room. “A lot better than I thought I would. I think our prescriptions are similar.”

“That means you can also wear my mask.” 

You look back at him, and find that he has his million-mile stare on, like he’s completely lost in thought. You smirk. “Do you want me to wear the mask?”

He blinks, and it’s like you’ve flipped a switch and turned his focus back on. “Uh… no. I mean, yes. Maybe later. I want to look at you.” His eyelashes flutter so fast you think he might take flight for a second. “You’re so fucking beautiful I could stare at you all day.”

“You can touch me, too. Don’t be shy.”

He practically vibrates with anticipation as his palms glide up your thighs, hot and big and just a bit rough. His eyes are everywhere at once; your lips, your eyes, your chest, your thighs, where your hips disappear under your oversized shirt. His fingers catch the hem, and he curls it between them.

“You should totally get naked, too. It’s super unfair that I’m the only one naked right now,” he says breathlessly, nodding the whole time like he’s trying to convince himself as much as you.

“So, do it.” You shrug, trailing a finger up his chest. “Take it off, baby.”

Adrian fists the hem of your shirt and rips it in half up the middle with a loud tear. You gasp, shivering as the garment falls from your shoulders and leaves you in just your panties. “Adrian!”

His eyes are trained on your tits. “What? It’s not like you need it tonight, anyways, and tomorrow we’ll be home…”

“What if that was my only shirt?” you retort.

He looks up at you. “Was it?”

“Well, no-”

“Then there’s your answer. Now, can I go down on you? Because I’ve wanted to for a really long time and I think it’s super hot that you’re wearing my glasses so it’s like I’m watching myself eat your pussy.”

He has such a hopeful expression on his face that you have to hold in a manic string of laughter as you nod at him. “Yeah, sure. Are you going to tear up my underwear, too?”

“No, I wanna keep those.”

“That makes perfect sense.” You shake your head before you kiss him deeply, and his tongue dips into your mouth as he rolls over with you, briefly getting tangled in the sheets before he roughly kicks them off. 

You run your fingers through his hair, snickering as he climbs between your legs and his hands deftly tug your panties down. “Can you keep a secret?”

“Depends on how incriminating it is.”

“I’ve never come from someone eating me out before,” you admit quietly, a blush furiously heating your cheeks until you fear that if you touch your face you might burn yourself. 

Adrian fixes you with a deadpan stare, and a slew of emotions cross his face before he lands on something relatively serene and says, “Okay.”

“Okay?” 

He nods and grins, like this is the most casual conversation in the world, and his green eyes bore into yours. “Yeah. You should probably, uh… hold on, though.”

You frown in confusion. “To what?”

He rocks back on his knees, picking up your arms by the wrists, and he very simply places your hands on his head, with a little smile that conveys, ‘it’s no big deal,’ but the tenderness with which he does it sends another message, altogether. Your fingers weave between soft, unruly curls, your fingernails digging in just a bit when he lowers himself down between your thighs, and you come to the conclusion that this is just how he is. Tenderness, closeness, hidden behind casual sighs and dismissive shrugs.

You’re learning. Slowly. 

His breath finds you before his lips do, where you’re wet and swollen and slippery like you haven’t been touched in your fucking life. But he has once already, and still his mouth feels like a searing hot brand between your legs. In fact, you nearly jump out of your skin at the first brush of his tongue through your folds, your hands tightening on his hair and tugging as you buck your hips up against him. 

Adrian grasps your hips and slams them down against the mattress. Sometimes you forget how fucking strong he is. His slight frame really doesn’t give justice to the force behind those lean muscles, because he holds you in an iron grip that you can hardly wiggle out of. It makes you feel small, in a way, that he holds you hostage to his tongue and won’t let you move away from or towards him. 

A long, miserable whine rips out of your lips before you can stop it, and you could blush at how pathetic it sounds, except that Adrian mimics it with a groan against your cunt. Your head is flung back against the pillows, but when you just barely tilt up to glance down at him, you find his green eyes trained directly on you. They start off wide as moons, and then narrow like he’s challenging you to look away as he drags the flat expanse of his tongue slowly over your clit, curling the tip just as it skims the mark.

“Oh, fuck you, Adrian, you’re so fucking good,” you grit out through clenched teeth. Your nails dig into his scalp and he shudders, briefly nuzzling his head up into your touch before he dips down to give you his tongue again. Your breath hitches, and your eyes flutter shut when he sucks on your clit long and hard. “So… s-so good… good boy…”

The moan that Adrian makes is overtly pornographic, and his hips snap once against the mattress so hard that the bed shakes beneath you. He breaks away from you to rest his forehead against your thigh, squeezing your hips tightly in his hold as his hot breath billows across your sweat-damp skin.

You loosen your fingers in his hair to stroke it softly, subconsciously struggling to flatten the cowlick at the back that you’d noticed earlier. Adrian’s eyes are squeezed shut, his shoulders heaving while he tries to steady his breath through his nose. “Did you just come?”

The tips of Adrian’s ears glow pink. He gives you a little nod and then a feeble, “Couldn’t help it.”

So, he can’t just take his praise in stride, he has to react to it with fervor. “That’s really sexy of you,” you blurt out, your voice ragged and just this side of adoring. 

He returns with a quiet mmm, rumbling across your skin as he drags his open mouth along the sensitive flesh of your thigh, his eyes drowsily shut. It takes him another moment to catch his breath, but once he does, he’s right back at it again. Dipping his head down and absolutely going for it with no signs of letting up, and you have to suck in a deep stream of air and scramble for a hold on him somehow.

“Oh- oh my fuckin-g god-” your voice comes out without thinking, wrung thin and anguished, as your foot plants itself in his shoulder. Adrian simply grunts, paying no mind to the fact that you’re effectively kicking the living shit out of him as he sucks so hard on your clit that you threaten to break his vise-hold on your hips.

He was right that you needed something to hold onto, because you feel like you might leave the ground. He works at you relentlessly, devouring you with his lips and tongue and teeth like he can’t get enough of you, his fingertips pressing so hard into your hips that his nails are turning stark white. 

“Fuck, you’re so squirmy,” Adrian groans when he pulls away from you for half a second, and struggles to hold you down when you try to chase his mouth. “Should I tie you down?”

“Do you have anything to tie me down with?” you mutter breathlessly toward the ceiling.

A beat. “Nope. Stay still.”

You fight not to jolt as the next touch of his mouth on you. He dips his tongue into your channel, seemingly trying to draw your arousal out of you that way. You start whining when he finally nuzzles his way back up, giving you soft, teasing licks to your clit that edge you closer and closer to the release of the swell of heat you feel building in your core. Your volume turns up a notch when his tongue starts drawing little circles around the swollen flesh. 

And when his lips come down to latch onto it and gently suck, you know you’re just shy of howling. His soft groans vibrate onto your skin as you scratch at his head and pull on his hair, and you eventually find yourself babbling, “Adrian, please, I’m gonna come, please pleasepleaseplease-”

He sucks harder, moaning like it turns him on just to hear you say it. You heave a few rapid breaths, and then come against his face with a cry that crackles and breaks in your throat as your head arches back, baring your neck forward. Your heels digging into his back, hands scratching, hips flailing like you can somehow escape the barrage of hypersensitivity he’s putting you through.

You really fucking hope no one is in the room next to yours.

His fingertips stick to your skin once he releases his grip on you. He’s practically glowing, grinning from ear to ear at you from between your legs, and it’s a better image than you had imagined. 

You drop your head back with a breathless chuckle. “Okay, Mr. ‘I Have No Pride.’”

“I made you come,” he chirps happily.

“Yeah, you did. It was really good, too.”

“So, why didn’t anyone else?” Adrian pushes his head toward your touch when you stroke your hand gently through his hair. 

“I dunno. They weren’t applying themselves, I guess.”

“That’s stupid. You’re, like, the hottest person ever. Hotter than Doja Cat,” he grumbles petulantly, and you can tell by the look in his eye that he’s dead serious. “Want me to kill them? I should kill them.”

“No.” You trail your fingers down the curve of his face, going for his chin, but he turns his face and sucks your two fingers into his mouth before you can manage it. You stop dead as the pad of his tongue swirls around the digits, and he blinks up at you innocently, despite the lewd connotations of the act. “N-no, I… hhhhh… you’re distracting me.”

He bats his eyes at you, and he slowly pulls back along your fingers until they pop out of his mouth, covered in saliva. “How am I distracting you?”

“You’re- you… you little shit.” You grab him by the chin and draw him up from between your legs. He clumsily crawls up the length of your torso with his cheeks smushed between your fingers as you hiss, “I’m going to fuck the ever-loving shit out of you, I swear to god.” 

“You know, that sounds slightly menacing when you say it like that,” he slurs, his jaw working against your hold. 

“On your back, Chase.”

He grabs you before you can protest, and rolls back over so that you plop down on top of him, your hand still jammed up against his jaw. A blast of air comes out of your lungs in lieu of laughter, and Adrian snorts, shuffling his hips so that he moves back against the pillows.

“Okay, look, I really really really like you,” he says as you pick yourself up, straddling his lap, “but if you’re too good at this I might accidentally fall in love with you. Just to let you know what you’re getting into here.”

“Oh, is that so?” 

“Yeah, and I think I might actually, um, ask you to move in with me, like, immediately. Like tomorrow. Do you rent or own? Doesn’t matter, I can put your name on the lease. Maybe if you own a house it can be income property-”

You cast your eyes down and find him, remarkably, hard and leaking precum as he continues babbling about living situations. You tilt your head, letting him get his stream of consciousness out there in the open, as your eyes catch on a dark wad of fabric beside his pillow. Your underwear, which he’d gingerly set aside instead of tossing across the room like you thought he would.

“Hm, Adrian?”

He blinks up at you, his eyes wide and dilated. “Yeah?”

You pick up the wadded up underwear. “You wanted to keep these, right?”

He licks his lips. “Um. Yes.”

“Hold them for me, then.” You grab his jaw and stuff them in his mouth, his eyes nearly popping out of his skull as he makes a noise of protest, but then actually moans when, presumably, he tastes you on them. “You’re so fucking cute, I haven’t even tied you up. You just want my taste in your mouth, huh?” He nods. “Yeah. Pretty boy.”

He predictably moans again, his hands grasping at every part of you they can reach; your arms, your breasts, the expanse of his palms gliding down the curve of your waist and settling on your thighs. You grab one, lifting it and settling his palm against your throat.

“Hold this for me, too?” You ask him sweetly, giving his bewildered expression a devilish smirk in return. You rock forward, sliding your dripping pussy along his erection, and his hand tightens on your throat just a bit. “That’s it.”

You pick your hips up, reaching between your legs to position him where you want him, and when you sink down onto his cock, the underwear in his mouth does nothing to muffle the obscene groan that he makes. His hand flexes on your throat, and his eyes close and open a few times as he tries to maintain a certain amount of control. Something tells you that he’s not really used to taking it lying down. 

You’re already decently sore from the way he effectively fucked your brains out in the shower. This is just ensuring that you’re going to be feeling it for the rest of the week, but you can’t help yourself. You take him in all the way, making agonized noises the entire time, and then jolt your hips down a little more so you can feel him bottom out. 

“Fucking hell, baby, you’re something else,” you snarl down at him, and his eyes go wide again as you squeeze him, every bit of your aching strength bearing down onto his cock until he whines loudly through the fabric and his fingers tighten on the sides of your throat. “Oh, god, I could ruin you. You could ruin me. I want you to, it would be so easy for you, I wouldn’t even be able to walk in the morning.”

And you’re moving, picking up your hips and letting them fall back down in slow, deep strokes that have him writhing, his free hand in a death grip on your thigh. You raise your hand to press against the back of his on your throat, your fingers weaving in between his, and he flexes them back a bit to make room. 

Even when he’s gagged, he’s noisy. Keening and grunting at you, his jaw tightening every once in a while and the tendons of his neck jumping out at you when your hips meet his. Dark curls hang down his forehead, damp with sweat, and you can’t help but feel like the shower was useless.

No, not useless. It brought you here.

Adrian bucks his hips up suddenly, meeting you halfway when you take a particularly long time on the downstroke. You gasp, tightening your hand on his, and your nails dig into his chest. 

“Oh, you want me to ruin you, don’t you?” You murmur at him, baiting him to do it again. And he does, just like you hoped he would. You pick up the pace in retaliation, letting the lewd sounds of your skin hitting his fill the room. “Silly boy, I knew you would.”

He whimpers, blinking up at you slowly, his face screwing up and tightening in earnest when you rake your nails up and down his chest. He makes a couple pathetic, weak groans in the back of his throat like he wants to convey something to you, but he’s not reaching up to remove your underwear from his mouth.

(You wonder if he even remembers that he can.)

“You gonna come for me?” you ask as his whimpers increase in volume. His cock is so hard, twitching and dragging thick inside you, and his chest jumps with every desperate, ragged breath he takes. “Yeah, you are. Go on, baby, make a mess.”

Adrian gives you a curt shake of his head, and paws at your thigh for a second before his hand slides forward, and his thumb touches your clit.

“Oh fuck, Adrian-” you lurch forward, pressing your throat hard against his palm, your legs seizing up on either side of his hips. He makes you come again with a single fucking touch, and it burns through your core like fire, almost more satisfying than the first because you’re able to feel him inside you this time, something warm and hard and thick to come on.

Apparently, that was all he needed in order to let go. His back arches a bit as he jerks his hips up into yours, and he fills your pulsing cunt until his shallow breaths rattle in his throat, his eyes squeezed so tight that you see a tear collecting in the corner of one. He lays with his head driven back hard into the pillow, whimpering and whining like he’s been mortally wounded. 

Too sore to move just yet, you pull his hand away from your throat and kiss his palm. Adrian’s eyes flutter open, and he finds you with a glazed-over stare, like he might either see you or see through you. Still letting out soft whimpers with each harsh exhale. 

“Oh. Sweetheart,” you giggle, and reach forward to pull the wad of underwear from his mouth. It comes out with a long string of his spit attached to it, and you give him a cheeky smirk as you break the string with your finger and lick it off, rather than wiping it on your skin. 

“You… you’re…” You swear his eyes nearly roll back in his skull before he closes them, trying to collect himself. He takes a deep, long breath, and then splutters, “Willyoumarrymeactually?”

You give him your biggest, goofiest grin, a little bubble of laughter wedging itself deep in your chest. “Get a little more whisky in me, and we’ll see what bright ideas I have then.”

“Okay.”

You lift yourself off of his softening cock, and the release comes with a dribble of his cum sliding down your thigh. He groans, but with one look at him you know that there’s not going to be any more action for the rest of the night. 

You shift to the left, and his hand smacks down onto your thigh. “Mmmm no, you sleep with me.”

“Yeah, obviously. But you came all over the sheets earlier, genius.”

“Oh.”

He takes a deep breath in and opens his eyes in time to see you taking his glasses off. You blink a few times, your eyes having adjusted to the slight difference in your prescriptions, and refocus on his face to find him gazing up at you adoringly. 

“I’m gonna take a guess and say you don’t sleep in these, too?” You wiggle the glasses at him. 

He licks his lips. “No, not… not usually.”

You set the glasses on the bedside table, and then slowly slide off of him, off the bed and onto shaky legs. You take his hand and tug just a bit. “C’mon, pretty. Into my bed.”

He follows your lead without a fuss, making the two step journey to the other bed and plopping down face-first. 

“D’you wanna get pancakes when we wake up?” he asks around a yawn as you nudge his ass, prodding him to scoot over. 

You nod furiously, even though you know he can’t see you as you switch the light off and climb in beside him, curling up against his warm back. “Pancakes sound fucking delicious.”

“Not as delicious as your pus-”

“Adrian.”

[lonenymphaea]

this is so fucking hot omg...

i wanna inject this shit in my veins, i NEED THIS

[mydearzero]

The Babysitter | Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x fem!Reader | Chapter 15 - Bucky

Summary: You didn’t have any superpowers, nor were you even qualified for the position, yet somehow a mishap between Alexei and Yelena ends up in getting you a new job. Bob-sitter. 

Contents: No Y/N, fem!reader, college student!reader. This chapter contains canon-typical violence.

Read it on AO3 | Chapter 1 | Chapter 14

2.4K words

Several uneventful days passed as you waited for Walker to set things in motion. Ava was now looped in, though it didn’t stop the rest of the team from starting Bob’s training. From what you heard, he was doing okay. He could hold his own physically, though he was easily distracted and too worried about hurting someone to actually try and defend himself properly, let alone attack his teammates. They’d have some real work on their hands if they wanted to get him into the field for missions anytime soon. 

John reported back to you with text updates, some more necessary than others. 

Alexei pulled a muscle in his groin, lol Bucky’s being weird these last few days, but it’s Bucky, so who knows what he’s up to Trained with Bob today Kicked his ass

You’d pleaded with him to please go easy on Bob, for the sake of your sanity. Not that Bob needed it. Some part of you didn’t believe John actually kicked his ass… Something about a taco-shaped shield. 

Speaking of texts; your phone buzzed in rapid succession, texts coming in just as you hit the send button on one of your assignments. 

Can you come to the Tower?  It’s urgent. It’s about Bob. 

Bucky’s messages were unexpected. You weren’t even certain how you’d gotten his number, yet there it was. You tried calling him several times as you made the familiar commute to the Tower, but got no reply. The same went for the rest of the team. John would’ve told you if they were out on a mission, right? You’d even tried calling Bob. As expected, he hadn’t answered. 

Should you be worried? What kind of urgency were you talking about here? ‘I’m out of toilet paper’ urgent or ‘the world is about to end’ urgent? The fact that nobody was answering didn’t settle the feeling in your stomach. 

It had only been a few days since you met with John. Surely things couldn’t have escalated that much. 

The penthouse was once again empty when you arrived, and you almost feared the worst. You knew Bob wouldn’t likely pull that roof stunt again, so against your better judgement, you made your way to the training rooms. You heard some grunting and sounds of impact, but no panic. 

“You have to focus, Bob” it was Bucky’s voice. Nobody seemed to be in trouble, thank god. 

You walked further into the room, dropping your bag by the benches and waiting for either of the men to notice your presence. Bob’s eyes widened as he saw you waiting patiently, taking the small amount of focus he had. Bucky had his back to you and swiped Bob off his feet easily, sending him flying. The thump of his body hitting the mat made you wince slightly. 

Bucky chuckled lightly, giving Bob a hand to pull him up before finally casting a glance over his shoulder, trying to see what had distracted Bob. When his eyes locked on your face, a shift happened. It was like all of the air suddenly got sucked out of the atmosphere. 

His expression went blank. The crinkles by his eyes smoothed over. His eyes were laser focussed. Empty. 

“Bucky?” You hesitated. “You okay?” 

A chill went down your spine, hairs on your arms standing to attention. Alarm bells sounded in the back of your head. Something was wrong. 

Bucky didn’t speak. His posture straightened. Bob was neglected, no longer of any importance. Bucky’s stride was determined as he stalked off the mat towards you. You scrambled to get away, fight or flight response activated by the sudden shift. 

Whatever was going on with him, the way his eyes had hardened… You were terrified. Your heart rate quadrupled in a matter of seconds. 

You didn’t manage to get to the door before Bucky’s metal arm wrapped around your neck, trapping your face between his forearm and bicep. Your hands flew to it, slapping and tugging at it, to no avail. 

“Bucky, s-stop!” You pleaded, strained. You barely got the words out, throat constricted. Bob unfroze, moving towards the two of you. Bucky’s hold on your neck tightened, as did your grip on the unrelenting metal.  A tight feeling rushed through your head. You were losing oxygen fast.

“Get off her!” Bob yelled, his tone panicked. “She’s not like us, Bucky! You’re gonna kill her!” 

In Bob’s defence, he really did try to get Bucky off of you. But Bucky, in this state? He was efficient. Bob was distracted, panicked and untrained. Strength didn’t matter. 

Bucky was dragging you to the door. You tried to dig your heels into the floor and to make yourself as heavy as possible. You’d given up trying to get his arms off you, opting to try and hold onto Bob. As soon as you made contact with the skin of his hand, you were dipped into darkness. 

Bob was panicked, his emotions heightened. You knew he didn’t have control over his powers yet. He couldn’t have helped the fact you’d gone slack in Bucky’s arms, stopping your struggle. He snatched his skin away from your touch as if you’d burned him, but it had been too late. By the time you’d regained a sense of consciousness, Bucky had hoisted you over his shoulder. 

“Bob!” You screamed at the top of your lungs. Bob tried barricading the door, but one calculated blow from Bucky’s flesh fist knocked him clean out. 

“Bucky, please! Stop!” You were slapping your fists against his back, but nothing stopped the man from walking to the stairwell and up to the penthouse. 

As soon as he threw you onto the couch and turned his back, you’d try to make a run for it. Bucky was faster, hand clutched into your shirt and tugging you back, fabric ripping slightly. He grabbed your wrists and twisted them painfully behind your back. He’d procured tape from seemingly thin air, using it to tape them together tightly. 

You whipped your head around, trying to make eye contact. “Bucky, stop!” 

There wasn’t much you could do with your arms tied behind your back, but you could try. You kicked backwards, but he’d seen the move coming from a mile away. You struggled in his hold, everything to make whatever he was doing more difficult. In your commotion, you’d turned around in his grasp, finally facing him. His clear, blue eyes could only be described as dead. 

“Bucky, I don’t know what’s going on, but please, let’s just talk about this!” 

You saw him rip another piece of tape, this one intended for your mouth. 

“Nononono Buck-” was all you could get out before he secured it. 

“Stop struggling,” were the first words he spoke to you in this state. You knew there was nothing more you could do. Your eyebrows twisted up, eyes watering in a desperate plea to seek a shred of humanity in his eyes. 

Nothing. 

Your world went spinning as he once again threw you over his shoulder like a sack of flour. You knew he was strong, but the fact he did it like you weighed as much as a feather, it scared you. You’d underestimated him. Underestimated the team. Underestimated just how much trouble you could’ve been in. Underestimated your own humanity and just how fragile you really were in this world as a mere human.

You let your body go slack in his hold. The struggle wouldn’t get you anywhere. It was best to preserve your energy and try to find a way out by logic instead of sheer strength. You tried to take a few deep breaths through your nose. Calm down. Focus on your surroundings. Where was he taking you? 

He walked to an unused service elevator behind the laundry room. You hadn’t even known it was there, and doubted anybody else did. He set you back on your feet while you were in the elevator and you watched his profile with wary eyes. There was no mirror in the elevator, and it was tiny. 

He looked normal, besides the rigid posture. His face was stern, but you’d never seen it not stern besides the few times you’d seen him laugh. Why was he doing this? What was there to gain from taking you, from knocking out Bob? 

You didn’t get an answer before the elevator dinged, signalling your arrival in the parking garage. You eyed your options, but there was no clear way out of there where he wouldn’t be able to catch up to you. You followed him wordlessly, but still stayed observant. 

He came to a halt by a random black car without plates. Who’s car was this? When he walked around it, you took your shot and dove behind a big SUV that was parked two spots over. It was dumb, you knew, but what else could you have done? You wiggled, trying to crawl underneath the car somehow without the use of your hands. A sharp piece of metal scraping your arm made you wince, but also gave you an idea. You quickly manoeuvred yourself so your wrists would be aligned with the metal and pierced the tape, freeing your hands. 

Just as you’d reached up and managed to rip the tape off your mouth, you heard his footsteps. He wore heavy construction boots. Your ears were ringing, breathing laboured as you watched his shadow walk around the SUV. 

You crawled further in between the wheels, but a hand wrapped around your ankle and dragged you against the concrete, away from the van. Your nails dug into the concrete, your wrists and knees getting scraped up, but you didn’t care. You tried to make as much noise as you could to alert anybody nearby now that he’d found you. 

“HELP!” You yelled at the top of your lungs. You could feel your voice going hoarse with the effort. Bucky yanked you off the floor, onto your feet and slapped a hand over your mouth. You bit it, hard, to the point of drawing blood. It did nothing but piss him off. 

He dragged you back to the black car he’d prepared. The trunk was open, and you knew he wasn’t going to ask nicely for you to get in. 

“Please…” you pleaded one last time. It was met with a fist to your temple, knocking you out cold. 

✶

The room you found yourself in was dimly lit. In different circumstances, it could’ve been described as cozy. You were surprised to find your hands and feet free of any bindings, your mouth uncovered.

The couch you were on was uncomfortably sturdy, made of rigid leather. Your skin stuck to it. You stood up too quickly, blood rushing, making you dizzy. You blinked a few times to get rid of the black spots in your vision, and regained your footing. You soundlessly walked to the only door in the room and carefully tried the handle. Locked, of course. Bucky was nowhere to be found. 

You tried the door a few more times, more vigorously. You contemplated ramming yourself into it, but it would likely only result in you getting yourself hurt. You sighed and sat back down on the couch. Wherever Bucky had brought you, you were stuck. 

There were no windows in the room, nor was there a clock. You guessed it was about half an hour before you finally heard movement outside the door. A key being stuck in the hole. The key turning. The door opening. 

“The human mind is a funny, fragile thing, you know.” You should’ve known. Of course it was her. It was all her. 

Dr. Sofen. 

“What did you do?” You demanded, glancing at Bucky who was standing rigidly by the door like a bouncer.

“I didn’t put anything in there that wasn’t already present. I just utilized that which was already there.” It was vague, but you understood. 

“Why are you doing this? What do you want?” They were basic questions, but they were all you had in a moment like this. 

“Hmm, now what fun would it be if I told you, instead of just letting it all play out according to plan?” 

“What do you want with me? I’m of no use to you. I don’t have any powers.” You had a gut feeling what was going on, but you needed her to confirm it. 

She took her time taking in your words, a small smile creeping on her mouth. She sat in one of the chairs across from the couch. 

“I tried several things to get him to come out. He’s stronger than I first assessed, I’ll have to give him that.” She smoothed out some wrinkles in her satin pants. 

“What did you do with the rest of the team? And what do you expect will happen, now? Whatever you want with him, he’s not going to help you.”

“You’ll just have to wait and see, sweetie.” 

Fuck. You hated her. You hated her so much. You told them she was bad news. God, could they not just have listened to you? 

You refused to speak more. She was clearly getting a kick out of seeing your distress. 

Your eyes flicked back to Bucky. Was he even blinking? He was staring into the abyss. You eyed Dr. Sofen and got up. She didn’t stop you. 

You waved a hand in front of his face, but there was no response. “Bucky?” you whispered. Nothing. 

“He won’t reply,” came her grating voice from behind you. 

“What did you do to him? All his programming was removed in Wakanda.”

“Hmm, there is only so much modern technology can do for you when you’ve been wiped and reprogrammed as many times as he has. Every mission, a new start. Sure, I had to dig a little deeper, but I’m a professional, what else can I say?” She took pride in what she’d achieved. 

“Poor James was suffering from nightmares, you know. Saw a court mandated therapist for a while, but sought me out all on his own. He wasn’t even a part of my plan, but didn’t it work out just perfectly?”

“You’re insane,” you bit out through gritted teeth. 

“We’ll see who’s the insane one here when your little lapdog shows up.”

The taglist is full, sorry!

TAGLIST: @hopes-peak-akademy @rattheraddestrat @i-shall-abide @puer-aurea @kennywantskfc69 @spectacled-studies @hiddlebatchedloki @chimchoom @spidermiraculous-blog @s00ty-feet @28cnn @tinythebunni @softpia @roeroeroeyourboet @secretkittydreamland @cultish-corner @greenbean-4ever @t-rexs-world @thebitchiestnerdtowalktheearth @ifilwtmfc @renren-006 @10ava01 @kawaii1369 @hawkinsavclub1983 @paleepeaches @lnmp89 @frozenhuntress67 @my-name-is-baby @a-moranguei @daisyyy47 @petersluvbug @articel1967 @purplefluffycows @midnightecko @lizzylynch1 @keira-kaz2y5 @lightinbug @thefriendlyferretwriter @xblueriddlex @funkyfable @papapappapapapa @darling-eos @neenieweenie @poppingaround @ren-ni @badbishsblog @makepastanotwar13 @spongelll @qardasngan

[gwynfahr]

Chat are we COOKED 👁️👄👁️