Strawberry Cake 🍰

Hi I'm Sylvie 20

[pietriarchy]

[asexualgeorgecostanza-deactivat]

[joey-wheeler-official]

[piss-bong]

[canopycapers-deactivated2022111]

[schmendrick-lamar-deactivated20]

[journeymanfool]

[dowereallyneedthis]

[favoritefightingfrenchgoth]

[disorderfaking-deactivated20200]

[goofballproximitysurveyor-deact]

[wilburian-deactivated20221116]

great job everyone lets hit the showers

[testosteronetwink]

[pinkthinkspalistineshouldbefree]

Not again

[cool-way-to-die-deactivated2022]

gentle reminder that you can’t get this kind of nonsense from any other site

[flavoracle]

This thread is almost eight years old and it has damn well earned its place among the Tumblr pantheon as a Heritage Post™️

[tarynel]

What’s your fantasy?

[pleasestopandrew]

I wake up, my debt is all paid off, my bank account is full, my relationships with my family are healthy, and I’m able to travel anywhere in the world.

[sophiamariabaeks]

reblog for this ultimate fantasy life to come true

[minsung]

[trans-ralsei]

[trans-ralsei]

[caughtthedarkness93]

I love my job, but reblogging employment jelly for someone else I love.

[cornflowersisblue]

Mr Crawling is such a cutie, isn’t he?

hehihi ^^

[goose-duck]

Devil Shaped Chew Toy

Ronin Beaufort x Reader

You go to your devil darling's humble abode for the first time, and decide he looks yummy :3

Warning: slightly suggestive towards the end

2.5k words :b

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You're over at your boyfriend's house. The Butcher–known more intimately as Ronin–and his very red house greet you boldly to say the least. Clearly–unremarkably–this man likes red. Who'd have guessed? It's not like you've seen his bedroom a million times when video calling or anything..

This is your first time over. Not right after your little meetup in purgatory, but a few weeks later when your brain finally started processing reality again. When it finally set in that you're dating the devil. That's when you asked him. Asked if you could go to his house, be with him there, watch movies, or play games. Anything really, you're just so excited.

He agreed eagerly. Despite his trying to stay calm, you could see the underline of excitement in every word. It was almost as if he'd been waiting for you to ask since the day you kissed him.

Upon arrival he greets you with his usual smirk, opening the door before you even got to it, likely having been watching for your car. He lets you in, a dramatic gesture as if guiding in someone of importance, which to him, you are.

He more or less slams the door closed behind you. It didn't come off deliberate, more like that's how he usually does it. Its as if you were meant to be here the whole time with how casual he is about it all.

He doesn't offer you a drink or food, just tells you to get it yourself. When you look at him hesitantly, he reassures that he's serious… then he appears to think for a second and realize you likely don't know where anything is. He scoffs at himself for a moment before leading you over to the kitchen and presenting you a lovely tour of it.

His kitchen is also mostly red, however what throws you is that this man somehow managed to find a red fridge. No sane person can like a colour that much. Is it even his favourite colour? Is this just part of his devil act? You no longer know, but it's cute anyway, especially when you notice the devil horn magnets on his fridge.

Your eyes linger on the magnets just long enough for Ronin to notice. He eyes the top of your head briefly before walking over to the fridge. He removes the magnets, and returns to you, holding the magnets out, just over your head, as if they were your horns.

He smiles at you softly, snickering a little, “Hello there, my sweet little writer. Looks like the devils taken ya over, huh?”

Ronin continues to giggle to himself more as you give him a playfully glares, pretending to be offended, yet never pushing him away. He looks so cute like this, cheeks blushed a soft pink, giggling like a school girl finally getting to talk with their crush.

Eventually he pulls the horns away, placing them back on the fridge, and putting your head once. He leaves his hand on your head for a moment, keeping your hair pushed back, the leaning in to kiss your forehead. You feel him blow of your forehead after too. It makes you chuckle, resulting in a pleased smile from the sweet serial killer.

He takes his hand off your head and pulls you towards a room with his name on it. You have no idea why he'd even need that. The guy lives alone. He notices your questioning look and gets in your face again, leaving just enough room for you to pull away if uncomfortable.

“Put it up jus’ for you, baby. So you'll know where to find me.” He teases, a big grin plastered on his handsome face, teeth showing. He looks devilish, and oh so cute.

Its adorable seeing him so happy, and knowing you're the reason he's all giddy. You don't even feel offended at the insinuation you wouldn't be able to find his room, not when he's being so precious. No one could look at that face, and truly stay upset.

You giggle at him, and poke his nose, lightly applying pressure to move him away. He complies, his head moving as far back as you push it, before snapping back to standing upright, eying you lightly. He nudges you towards his room, his fingers gentle against your back.

“C'mon, darlin’. It's the room you've been waiting to see up close, and personal since day one.” He whispers in your ear softly, leaning down just enough to blow soft air against the shell of your ear, like he had earlier with your forehead.

You shiver slightly at the sensation and he almost looks worried he upset you, his hand adjusting to rub your back slightly. You look up at him with a small smile, and while he doesn't do it when your eyes are on him, after you start moving towards his room, he lets out a soft huff of air.

Hes not used to feeling worried about how he comes off. He doesn't even know why he's feeling this way. He knows you love him, but there's still that nagging little worry that you may reject him. He likes annoying you, poking fun, all that, but he doesn't want to ever actually upset you. Not anymore. Not when you're his.

He follows you into his room, his eyes following you as you look around. You stand in the middle of his room, admiring things, but never moving to get close to anything, just shuffling around the open space nervously. You don't want to touch something and upset him, so you end up not actually doing anything.

Ronin notices immediately, he sees the hesitation. He doesn't want you to feel on edge with him, so he walks up to you, gently putting a hand on your shoulder, then more harshly pulling you close, so he can talk into your ear again.

“Darlin, this room? It's all yours. Look around, touch what you'd like. You're safe here, baby. I promise.” He gives a devilish smirk as you look up at him, trying to reassure you that you're allowed to just exist with him.

You give him a soft nod, and a little squeak, a silent ask for him to let go. He does, giving your upper back a soft rub as he walks over to his bed, face planting into it before adjusting himself to be laying on his back. Hes still watching you, not to make sure you don't do something wrong, but to make sure you don't get hurt.

Ronin had tries to make the house a little safer before you came over, putting some of the sharper things away, but his room still could hurt you. Normal things can kill after all. So he watches you.

After a while of looking around you walk over to his bed, looking at him expectantly. You want to lay on his bed with him. Cuddle him. Kiss him. Bite him. However you're still hesitant to just welcome yourself into his space. So you stand there. Fiddling with your fingers. Looking at him with your cutest, saddest little face.

He laughs at you, loud squaking laugh, before trying to calm himself. He eventually manages to get it down to soft snorts, but he thinks you're so silly, he can't help but laugh.

“You're adorable, darling.” he teases, sitting up, and holding a hand out to you, trying to encourage you to get on the bed.

Your face heats up, turning a hot shade of red quickly at his laughter, but you giggle a bit under your breath too. You climb onto his bed, and sit near the edge, kneeling at looking to him for encouragement to get closer.

He gives you a bit of a weird look, having hoped you'd just… come over to him. Yet here you are, sitting at the edge of his bed, not quite making eye contact with him.

He sighs dramatically before wrapping his arms around you, and giving you a soft look, a silent ‘can i?’ in his eyes. You nod and he pulls you over, right on top of him. He rests your head against his chest, and holds the back of it gently, his other hand on your back, making sure you didn't get hurt when he tugged you down.

When he's sure you're all good he softens his hold, adjusting it to be more casual. His hand on your back moving down to your hip, and his hand on your head now adjusting so he can fun his fingers through your hair.

You look up at him from your location on his chest, you puff out your cheeks at little at him before sticking your tongue out, a playfully gesture to show him you're happy. He imitates your puffed up cheeks and you nearly cackle at the sight, but quickly calm yourself, little snickers coming from between your lips instead.

He then continues to follow your previous actions and sticks his tongue out, piercing reflecting the light from his computer in the corner softly. You move quickly, leaning up and nearly biting his tongue. He pulls back quickly and gives you a shocked expression, not expecting the confidence after… all that.

A conniving look covers your face, playfulness shining in your eyes. He matches your enthusiasm with a tooth smirk.

“You want that, baby, you gotta ask first.” He coos at you, placing a hand back on your head, and back. You're now laying on top of him, and he clearly doesn't have any qualms with that.

You blow a kiss at him before stating, giggles still lacing your tone, “Awee, but you're so chewy looking! Let me bite youuu..” You feign annoyance, whining at him, a fake look of sadness in your clearly pleased eyes.

He chuckles lovingly, affected by your bold behaviour, “Didn't know you were a cannibal, darlin’. ‘Suppose I'll have to feed ya then.”

He adjusts the two of you so you're both now sitting up. He presses a quick kiss to your cheek, biting softly with the edge of his teeth before pulling away.

“Do what you'd like, baby. I'll stop you if it hurts, okay?” He whispers, soft, but just loud enough to be made clear he means it.

Now that you have reassurance you're free to do as you please, you excitedly return the favour of him biting your cheek with a bite of your own. You go straight for his face, get his cheek between your teeth, and apply light pressure. You feel him flinch slightly, but he doesn't stop you, just puts a hand on your hip, and rubs.

You feel safe with him like this. Safe, excited, and ready to munch of this delicious meal of a man. You start pressing kisses to his neck, then bites, sucking on his skin a little to leave small marks. He giggles under your touch, doing his best to gently hold you up by your hips, helping you get what you want a little easier.

His shirt gets in the way of your continued fun, but no matter! You move into his arms, nibbling them happily. Somehow you end up cradled in his lap, your head under one of his arms, munching on it pretty much, while his free hand rubs your thigh slowly.

You sit up a bit more properly, tired of his arm. You grab his hand from your thigh, giving him a cheeky little look before biting the side of it. He gasps softly, placing his other hand against your back. You look up at him a little worried, but he just rubs your back reverently. You give him a big smile and go back to nibbling on his fingers.

As you start to move his shirt up, and bite his stomach and chest, he knows he'll be sore in the morning, but its worth it to see you so excited. He stifles a moan as you go over his chest, he can feel you trying to leave marks, yet he's trying to not let you know exactly how good it feels.

He puts a hand against your back, letting out a breathy little sound, “Fuck- darlin'- gentle, gentle. Please.”

He rubs your back a little as you look up at him with concern, “S’okay, baby. I'm okay, jus’ don't think you're ready that yet, okay?” You arent really sure what he's talking about at the moment, too caught up in your own fun. You nod and move away from his chest, making sure to leave soft kisses over his scars before retreating to somewhere objectively safer.

You don't see it, but he smiles softly at that, his hand shifting back down to one of your thighs as you crawl off him, his face relaxing a bit. He rubs softly, “Keep going, baby. I'm okay.”

He receives a hesitantly nod from you, and you pull his hand from your thigh. You lay beside him, bringing his forearm to your lips. You look at his tattooed arm as if it's a delicious treat. One more glance at him for reassurance, and you're chomping down on his inked skin.

You hear a muffled sound from him, so you let go and press a kiss over the bite marks, mumbling a soft apology before letting his arm go. You consider his thighs for a bit, but conclude if his chest was too much, his thighs might kill him.

You make your way back up to him, looking for cuddles. He gladly accepts, bringing you back into his arms gently, holding you, bringing you down to lay against the pillows with him. You rest your head against his shoulder, him rubbing your back with reverence.

You look up at him from your comfortable position, “Thanks for letting me do that, Ro.”

He smiles softly, “Awee, my little writer enjoyed their dinner? Good.” As always, he teases lightly, but with love. You can tell he's really just happy he could make you so happy.

The two of you lay like that for a while, enjoying eachother's company in the near silence–save for the humming of his computer–of his room. His curtains closed, his bed soft, you begin to drift off. Then the realization hits… did he ask you to stop earlier because you were turning him on?

You begin to giggle to yourself, causing him to look down at you, “What is it, darning’?”

“Oh- nothing-” Your eyes holding a knowing look.

He can't be bothered to ask again, so he just sighs, rolling his eyes playfully, and tugs your hair a little, earning a whiny groan from you, “Whatever you say, baby. Jus’ glad you're havin’ a good time.”

His playful look softens at the end of his sentence, he presses a kiss to the top of your head, “Love ya, writer darling.”

You return the soft smile with a lopsided one of your own, “Love you too, shoulder devil.” Relaxing back into his hold, and finally closing your eyes to rest, knowing you're safe with your sweet serial killer, Ronin Beaufort. Your surprisingly tasty boyfriend.

[goose-duck]

The Devil's Secret

Ronin Beaufort x Reader

Plot: Ronin's keeping a secret from you, Reader! Misaki accidentally exposes him :0

Warnings: suggestive jokes

Words: 2.6k :3

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You're over at your boyfriend's apartment. It's a bit of an odd place, esoteric, much like the man himself. Suspicious red found in corners he couldn't be bothered to clean, you figured just paint. He does seem to like art quite a lot. He's too stated his love of red, reciting what sounded to be poetry about a corpse to emphasize his enjoyment of the bold colour.

You're no longer surprised by your boyfriend's odd ravings. Just lumping it in with his whole devil thing. You don't always get it. It often feels as though he's alluding to something you have yet to be made aware of. Yet, you love him, and all his sardonic cadence.

At the moment you're sat between his legs, while he rests casually in his slightly butsed up computer chair. You have no idea how it even got that way, most of his apartment is decently kept, then there's this busted ass computer chair. You thought that was funny the first time you saw it. Now, however, its just become another aspect of your boyfriend's loud, and beautiful expression of self. Even if its only a busted up chair.

You rest your head against one of his thighs as he slowly runs his fingers through your hair. He'd set up a movie to play on his computer, knowing you're more comfortable being in his room rather than the living room. Its some cheesy slasher film, one he finds silly.

You find it entertaining, and enjoy seeing your boyfriend happily point out logical inaccuracies. However, there are moments that throw you off slightly. Things he knows that don't quite make sense. The little details you'd have figured no one would just know. But he does. He always does. And he loves making fun of horror movies for said inaccuracies.

It unsettled you the first few times it happened, you giving him worried looks, only to have them returned by a devilish smirk, and a hand on your own. He'd pull you into his chest, whispering what to you sounded like nonsense, rubbing your back, playing with strands of your hair. You knew he was trying to comfort you–make fun of you, sure–but comfort your weary soul.

Though at times it felt like he was silently asking you to not press further. Not inquire into his odd knowledge. Sometimes when he'd press your head against his chest, it felt as if he were trying to just you up. Not in a hurtful way, but as if there's something sensitive burning up under his skin, and you're peeling away the protective seal around the flames. Like hes scared you'll run from the flames of hell when you truly see them with your ethereal eyes.

At the moment though, you're sitting in a comfortable silence. Movie playing softly in the background despite the shrill screams of death. Its nice to have little moments like this with him. Moments where there's no confusing words, thoughts, or feelings. There's just quiet love.

You feel it in every stroke his fingers make through your hair. Every knot he untangles. The way he leans down occasionally to press a kiss to the top of your head, or when he places his hand under your chin to make you look up at him, and give you one of his toothy grins.

You love moments like this. Soft ones. Ones where you don't have to worry about anything. This is your safe haven. Here with him. With your ‘devil’, as he likes to call himself. If this is what they devil's like, you can't say you're too worried about going to hell.

You turn yourself around, now facing him. Still settled between his thighs, kneeling on the floor now. You look up at him, and he holds your face softly, “What is it, baby?”

That look in your eyes, he knows you want something. What that is though? Left to be determined. You arent even sure what exactly you want. Maybe just him. Maybe just to meet his eyes with your own, and feel the warmth.

You lean into his hands holding your face as if you were a priceless object. To him, really, you are. He wouldn't give you up for heaven itself. He brushes his thumb across your cheek, giving you a softer smile, one with less bite, and more softness. He moves one hand to run it through your hair again, pushing the strands out of your face so he can get a better view of you as you look up at him like that.

In his eyes, you look perfect like this. This is exactly where you're supposed to be. Right here, with him, safe, and alive. Your eyes are always one of his favourite reminders that you're real. That along with your pulse he loves to kiss over in more intimate moments. Though sometimes in softer moments like this, he'll bring your wrist to his lips and press soft kisses to it, looking you in the eyes to make sure you feel the full extent of his care for you.

You're soft moment, however, gets abruptly interrupted by what you can only assume is a discord call. At least it looks like discord… almost? He is good at nodding Minecraft for you, maybe he modded discord for himself? That's cool. Your boyfriend is so fucking cool.

You look up at him, intending to ask about how he made his discord look how it does, but you're met with blow wide eyes. He clearly wasn't expecting a call right now. You weren't either, but you've not seen him like this before, as if maybe what hes been hiding is right there in front of him. For all you know, maybe it is.

“Ro? Whats-” he glares at you mid sentence, covering your mouth with his hand, and shushing you. You give him an offended–nearly annoyed–look, not sure what the hell's going on.

He pushes you under the desk, bringing his chair over to its usual placement right in front of the old hardwood. He removes hi hand from your mouth, “Be good, please, darlin’.” He almost sounds desperate, begging, looking you in the eyes, his nerves visibly frayed.

You nod quietly, turning your focus to his hand once places over your mouth, and reaching for it. He lets you have it. Play with it all you want, just be quiet. So you do, moving his hand around, his fingers, twisting his rings. Whatever keeps you occupied while he answers this seemingly stress worthy call.

He answers it, and you hear someone start speaking. It's a deeper, yet still vaguely feminine voice. They're cheerful, and kinda loud. You nuzzle into Ronin's hand in hopes it'll quell the new ringing in your ears. You're sure the person's voice wouldn't normally be so bad, but being right under the desk, its like an echo chamber for every sound, bouncing around in your head like a bullet in a pillow.

He feels your movement, and begins trying ro comfort you lightly. He brings rubbing your cheek with his thumb again, just praying to whatever hell is out there you'll stay still, and Misaki won't notice his odd behaviour.

He's polite to them, but hes trying to find an out of this call. They start trying a bit, having noticed hes sitting at a weird angle. They ask him what hes doing, and he tells them in his weird nonsensical ways to pretty much shut up, and ignore it.

They begin to tease him. They start joking about him getting up to something indecent–or to quote them–naughty. They begin to giggle at Ronin, and he sighs in frustration.

“Ahaha! Oh my god– did I catch you– The infamous Butcher– in the middle of– bfahhaa– oh my god, I need to tell the other–” They poke fun at him. They're having fun, but you can tell Ronin's getting irritated.

Wait– wait, wait, wait. The– who now? Butcher..? Like, the butcher from purgatory? Hes not. There's no way… right?

He feels you freeze up against his hand, and looks down to you for just a moment. He looks straight at your eyes, and you look up, right into his own. Your eyes are filled with confusion, and slightly terror. He stops all movement, looking distinctly afraid. Afraid of what you'll do next. He knows you're just heard that, and you now know what you heard was true. The way he froze up, similar to how you had. He's been caught.

You pull away from his hand hesitantly, the person still trying to converse with Ronin through his screen. He reaches for you, but you shake your head hesitantly at him, as if he'll burn you–as if he already has.

You see him shake slightly, his tough persona cracking at your fear. He doesn't want you to be afraid of him. He knew this would happen– getting with someone who didn't know. That was his mistake. But you were just… made for him. Or so he thought. Now hes not so sure. Now hes worried you may run from him. That he'll lose you too.

He can't even be bothered to listen to Misaki any longer, quickly saying goodbye, and hanging up on them, a small squeak of protest is heard, but the call comes to a swift close. Then he moves. Sliding right from his chair, to his knees on the floor in front of you. His chair now pushed back across the room a bit.

He looks you in the eyes with this pathetic look. One you've never seen on his face before. Desperate, pleading, screaming with his eyes ‘please don't leave me’. He reaches out to you once again. You back away, pressing your self against the wall, looking at him with a confusing sense of horror filling your heart.

You don't understand– hes your boyfriend– it was just some joke. You should trust him. But some part of you– a smarter part– knows its true. You know hes The Butcher. The devil man himself. The crowbar killing of purgatory. You know. You knew. You just didn't want to have to acknowledge it. Acknowledge what you were accepting being okay with by being with him. By calling him yours.

You'd said it so many times with confidence, that hes yours, and you're his. Now though? Now hes worried if you do say it, it'll be muttered, muffled with fear, tainted by the truth of the blood on his hands. He loves you too much to let you go, but try as he might, he likely couldn't stop you from running if you did right now. He'd just watch you leave, his heart he denies having, shattering in his chest.

But you don't leave. You don't try to get out from under the desk, or get closer to an exit. He can see you shaking much like he is, but you don't once actually try to leave. You just need distance, but not absence.

He takes a shaky breath, “Darling?” His voice quivers despite his attempt to cover his fear with a false confidence.

You meet his eyes again, letting out a nervous hum of acknowledgment. Youre still pressed against the wall, but you have no intentions of leaving. You just aren't sure if hes still– if he’s still safe. It hurts you to even consider he might not be. But if he knows you know, will that changes things for the worse, or the better? You don't know, and that's what scares you. You hate the unpredictable.

He reaches out for you again, watching you flinch, and pulling back as if he brought a lit match to you rather than his hand. The same ones that have hold you softly night after night. They're the same ones he's bashed skulls in with. But for you? For you, they'll always be clean when they make contact, if that'll make you stay.

His eyes water, he sniffles, holding the tears in, trying to hide his fear, “You– you gonna leave?” Hes trying to sound tough, but all you hear is that scared teenager, begging– begging someone else important to stay.

You shake your head, your eyes now watering too, “I don’ wanna leave you– scared– I'm– you're– fuck, Ronin. What the fuck? Were you ever gonna tell me, or was I gonna sit around forever, never being sure of who you are?” You blurt out your thoughts as tears roll down your cheeks.

He hangs his head almost shamefully, like he knows he should have told you by now. Like he knows his fears, his huberous, overconfidence he could hide it so youd say– it was all pointless bullshit. He reaches out again. This time, you let him. Let him lace his fingers with your own, and slide up under the desk beside you.

You look at his hand, trailing the tattoo up his arm, to his earrings glinting in the low light of the room. Then finally meeting his gaze, his eyes tear soaked too, reflecting that same soft light of those sharp piercings. Your eyes are reflecting that same light, that same softness.

You sniffle again, hiccuping a little, pressing your face into his chest. He hesitates for only a second before holding you close in his lap.

You feel his cheek against the top of your head, “I'm– I'm sorry. I thought you'd–”

“Leave?” You look up at him, pressing your face into the crook of his neck.

“Yeah. I did. I didn't want to lose you– I thought– I was wrong.” He concedes nuzling against you again, breathing in your scent softly, seeking comfort in your closeness.

He feels your tears against his neck as he continues to speak, to confirm who he is, “I'm– the butcher. The one massacring people in purgatory. That's my alley.” He speaks, more confidence in his tone, more sure that you'll stay.

You nod against his neck, still sniffling, your tears beginning to calm slightly, “Okay. That's okay, Ronin. Y'still mine. My boyfriend.”

He smirks, though you can't see it at this angle, “Yeah, baby. I'm your sweet serial killer– your shoulder devil–”

As hee begins his esoteric ramblings again and you sigh against his neck, “Ronin?”

“Yes, darlin'?”

“I love you.”

Me smiles softly, pressing a kiss to your temple, “I love you too, darl’”

You giggle softly, cuddling in closer to him under the safety of the desk, in the safety of his strong arms, taking in his scent of cigarettes, oil, and what you now know to be blood. He matches your actions, holding you closer as well, rubbing comforting circles into your skin with your thumb.

This is home for you, with him, with every part of him. Knowing him for all he is– its scary– something you weren't quite ready for when you started catching on. But it's love. Knowing him inside, and out, like he does you. You feel safe, even with the devil himself. Especially with the devil.

You feel him kiss your head one more time, before softly telling you to rest. He can still feel you shaking slightly in his arms, as can you with your place on his lap.

You press a soft kiss against his neck, telling him to relax a bit too, reassuring him, “I'm not going anywhere, ‘nin. You've got me for good, here in hell.”

He chuckles, matching your lightly playful energy, “Yeah, devil's got ya– you little sinner.”

He ends the sentence with an exaggerated kiss to your lips, cradling the back of your head in a hand, keeping your neck steady, before pulling away, and giving you a smile that could outshine the sun. You laugh, he laughs too. Everything feels good again, normal. With the truth of everything out in the open– it's all still normal. He's still your Ronin; the ever-sardonic protector of your doomed soul.

[goose-duck]

Maybe Ronin with a reader who is dealing with their ex who is trying to get back together with them and won’t take no for an answer? Reader doesn’t tell Ronin at first but eventually he finds out anyways? Just a random idea I came up with, no worries if it’s not up your alley!

Exes & Orchids

Ronin Beaufort x Reader

2.6k words

You and your ex broke up a few months ago, just before you met Ronin if you had to estimate. The break up was bad; you left them due to their rather violent behaviour towards you and even your cat. They argued with you and would scream and hit you. Hell, on your way out, they even slapped you and scolded you for “daring to leave the only person who will ever love you”. They were a real twat and you were relieved to finally be rid of them.

More recently, however, you've found solace and love in a new place. You've found it with Ronin. The weird serial killer who likes to fuck with you on a server full of killers. The man who sought you out for his own entertainment. He's now also become your entertainment and the object of your affections. It seems he's found the same in you.

The two of you had semi-recently gotten together, having met in purgatory and not separated since. It'd been about a month since then, yet somehow the man had convinced you to live with him only a week after finally meeting in person. How funny is that? It's a wonder no one's killed you prior, I mean, moving in with a known killer a week after debating killing him? You're crazy. You're his crazy.

At the moment you're at home by yourself. Ronin had left a few hours ago; on a mission to get groceries, but likely distracted with something of less importance. You've gotten used to it by now. It's cute how he notices everything and just has to find out more. It's kind of annoying too.

Ronin had noticed your recent change in behaviour. How you've been on edge, kinda prickly about everything. Every time there's a knock at the door he notices your slight flinch, how you glare at the door as if it were going to eat you alive. He noticed your abrasive behaviour in regards to his affection, often pushing him away rather than accepting his love.

When he questioned you on this, you assured him it's not his fault. It was clear he didn't believe you; however he knew he couldn't pry the truth from your lips, so he dropped it. He left in a huff after that, insisting he just wanted to shower. You've grown to understand by that he means he wants to be alone to think, so you left him to it.

Maybe you should tell him about your ex? Not that he doesn't know about the low quality relationship you'd been in prior to having met him, but he doesn't know that your ex has been practically stalking you as of late. Ever since you made a post about being with Ronin, just a simple little post, a picture of you kissing his cheek; ever since then your ex has been very interested in your doings.

They've liked all your posts and been spamming you with texts about wanting to apologize and try to be friends. You know them well enough to know it's all bullshit. They're just upset you've moved on. They tried desperately to leave a cut so deep it could never scar; yet their efforts proved futile. Once you'd met Ronin it was like finally going to the hospital and getting the wound cauterized. The damage is still there, it's still a scar, one not easy to ignore, but it's healed and healthy. You have Ronin to thank for that.

You suddenly hear a knock at the front door. Yet another thing your ex had been doing recently, leaving gifts for you. They must run up, knock, then hide, because you never seem to catch them in the act. You don't know how they managed to find Ronin’s house, but it isn't as if they hadn't done this to you while you were together.

They've always been a stalker. A total creep. You were into it when you'd first met them. Someone totally obsessed? They'll never leave me? Sign me up. Alas, it's not like what the stories tell. It's not romantic at all. It's disturbing, traumatic and downright gross at times.

You'd found them in your house, uninvited, many times. Seen them going through your cupboards, sock door, and even using your shower. One time, when at their house, you'd found pictures of yourself sleeping pinned to their wall. It was horrific the things you'd seen them do. Obsession isn't nearly as attractive as you once thought it was.

Love however? That will always have your heart. When you first met Ronin on the server; he was annoying, seemed like just some other creep, especially when he talked of knowing where you live and things of the like. He managed to prove you wrong though. He respected all your boundaries and in the end kept you safe. When you agreed to meet in purgatory, you already knew he was the one.

You hesitantly stand up, making your way cautiously over to the door. Just in case something dangerous is there, you've begun opening the door in a way Ronin has stated is “strange”. You don't think it's too bad, just… careful? No- it's weird, but if he knew what was going on he'd understand. Maybe he'd answer the door for you? Track down you ex and end them? Is that too much- open the door bro-

You stand over to the side of the door, behind the side that would swing in when the door is opened. You gently turn the nob, opening the door slowly. You peek around the side of your wooden shield and search for the new object at your doorstep. It's a bouquet of flowers. White orchids. The exact flower you ex used to keep on their dining room table. Yikes. That's… awesome.

You hesitantly kick the flowers away with your foot, knocking them off the front steps into the dirt. You feel slightly bad, the flowers hadn't done anything to you. Your ex had though, meaning these flowers can't be trusted. You then slam the front door closed and thoroughly check that it's definitely locked before leaving it. You return to your place on the couch and resume your aimless internet scrolling.

~~~~~~

Ronin soon returns with groceries and mail and… a bouquet of white orchids. What is with everyone and white orchids? He sets down the bags of groceries and walks over to you. He leans over the side of the couch, single letter and bouquet in his hands.

“Hey, Darlin’~ what's with the dirt flowers out front?” He holds the orchids up to your face.

You grimace, “Seems to me they aren't out front anymore…”

He hums, “Seems they aren't.” He thinks for a moment, “What's with the flowers, hon?” He speaks a bit more sternly, suspecting there's more to the situation than just random orchids.

You sigh, “Ronin. They're meant to be in the dirt. Leave them there.” You give him the stern demand, not leaving space for refusal.

Ronin nods at this, “Alright, Darlin’, in the dirt they shall go… I do have to ask though, is there a reason you hate white orchids so much?”

You shoot him a sharp glare, “Quit catching onto shit I don't want you catching onto.”

He chuckles softly. “Not happenin’, love. What's going on? You've been acting off for a while, not that we've been together all that long, but, I didn't think you'd be the type to push away my affection. You can tell me if I'm being too much, Darlin’. Don't want things ending when they're just beginning.”

“I… don't wanna talk about it, Ronin.” You dismiss his concerns.

“Y/N. I'm being fuckin’ serious. What's wrong? I can't make things better if you don't tell me what the fuckin’ problem is. I'm worried about you and you're giving me nothing here. Please, just throw me a bone on the problem, or maybe the solution, if you have one.” He desperately begs you, his voice cracking with concern. You see his eyes water slightly. You've really got him stressed out.

He pleads, “At least tell me why you aren't tellin’ me things, Darlin’. Please, at least give me that..?” He's sunken to his knees behind the couch, only his arms and face resting on the back of the couch, just off to the side of you. He looks so worried and upset; like a cat you've stepped on the tail of then yelled at for being under your feet, as if they weren't just trying to show you affection.

You can't take that look on his face any long and concede. “Fine. ‘Guess I can at least give you that much.” You huff out, not making eye contact with him. “I don't wanna tell you… because I wanna believe this is something I can handle on my own. I don't wanna feel weak asking you for help. I know how stupid that is, it's not weak to ask for help… but… I don't know what's wrong with me!” You throw your arms up, annoyed with your own avoidance of asking for assistance when you're in too deep. You know better, yet you aren't being better.

Ronin tosses the Orchids to the floor and leaves the letter resting on the back of the couch. He then stands up and walks around the couch so he's now in front of you. He squats down in front of you, putting himself lower than you in hopes it'll make you feel more comfortable, more in control of whatever is going on. He rests a hand on one of your knees and puts his other hand to your chin; lightly grabbing your attention before pulling it away, only to gently grab one of your hands and squeeze it.

“Darlin’, tell me what's wrong. Even of you don't want me fixin’ it for you, sometimes it can help get your thoughts straight to verbalize them. I'm here. You're safe. You'll always be safe when I'm around. Please talk to me.” He gives her a patient look, worry still evident in his soft eyes.

You squeeze his hand back, finally allowing your eyes to lock with his, “My ex has been bothering me…” You wait a second, anticipating some reaction. All he gives is a soft nod; silently telling you it's okay to continue, he won't speak until you're done. You squeeze his hand again as a thanks.

“They've been stalking me again… maybe it never stopped? I don't know- I don't want to think about that. Anyway, they've been leaving me things… like… white orchids… and stuff… um… yeah. They're making me really uncomfortable and putting me on edge, so, y'know- um. That's all I've got. Eheh…” You nervously spit out what's been going on in short form. His focus is entirely on you. He's hanging onto every word that leaves your mouth.

Once he knows you don't have anything else to say he speaks up, “What do you want to do about it?” It's a simple question, yet you didn't have an answer. They may have harmed you in the past, but you don't enjoy the idea of causing anyone pain. Yet you wish he'd face some consequence for his actions.

“I- I don't know. I don't know, Ronin. I don't.” You meagerly whimper out in response. You receive a soft nod from him before he replies, “Would you like me to handle it for you?” You nod before quickly following up, “But don't kill them, okay? That seems like a bit much.” Ronin gives you a disappointed look, but agrees not to kill them.

Ronin changes his position slightly, moving himself to be placed between your legs. He gently rests his head against one of your thighs, “Is there anything I can do to make you feel better right now, Darlin’?” He softly questions, pressing light kisses to the tight his head is resting on.

You giggling lightly and run your fingers through his messy hair, “This is more than enough, Ronin.”

He leans into your touch slightly, “Nothing is enough for you. I can always give you more.” He gently moves your hand from his head, bringing it to his lips and pressing a few soft kisses to it. You blush, but don't make any sign for him to stop.

~~~~~~

Later while you're asleep in bed, Ronin is hard at work trying to figure out what to do about your shifty ex.

First, he starts with the basics, those flowers they left. He burns them. He doesn't even think twice before those white orchids go up in flames.

Next, the letter. After hearing what had been going on he decided to read the letter himself before giving it to you. It was a love letter from your ex. He decided against reminding you of its existence. This also went into the fire.

Lastly, the root of the problem, your ex.

He knows you told him not to kill them, but it just seems like such an easy solution to the problem. How could he not? He could just not tell you he killed them. You don't have to know. It's totally fine.

Before burning the litter he had checked where it was sent from. He then followed the address to your ex’s place of residence.

When he arrives he bangs on the door. Three hard bangs.

Bang.

Bang.

Bang.

Exactly like what he's going to do to their head. He's gonna bash it in. That should stop them from ever bothering you again.

Soon your ex answers the door; still in their pajamas, likely due to the late hour. They look confused as to why Ronin is there. They know who he is, they've stalked your posts enough to know he's your boyfriend. The question still lingers though, why is he at their home.

They soon find out when Ronin pushes them back in through their door and swiftly slams it shit behind him, not even giving them the chance to question him. They rush to find a weapon or maybe their phone, Ronin didn't care. All he cared about was ending them.

He quickly grabs them, pushing them to the floor. “I'll make sure you never bother my Darlin’ again.”

Bang.

“This wouldn't be happening if you'd just left them alone.”

Bang.

“It's all your fault.”

Bang.

“I hope hell isn't kind to you.”

Seeing that they're definitely dead; their head bashed in, blood covering most surrounding objects, he makes his leave.

He rushes back home to you… and to the fire he needs to put out. Hoping all is well and you're still asleep.

When he returns to the house he sees his fire is still going. He gets a bucket of water and quickly doused the fire, putting it out with ease. He then returns inside the house, quietly grabbing some clean pajamas and sneaking into the washroom to clean up.

~~~~~~

Once out of the shower he dries himself and puts on his pajamas. They're the matching ones he'd bought with you. Pink and fluffy with rainbows on them. How silly. How cute.

He silently walks into your shared bedroom, laying down on the bed beside you. He turns to look at your sleeping form, drooling slightly in a deep slumber. He smiles softly at you, brushing some hair out of your face. He holds your face gently in one hand, brushing his thumb across your cheek. He then quickly runs his fingers through your hair before pulling you close.

Your face is now pressed against his chest, your face a little squished and oh so adorable to him. He plays with your hair a little more before drawing small patterns on your back and arms. He lovingly kisses your forehead.

“‘Night, Darlin’. You're safe now, right here, in my arms.” He whispers softly against your forehead, finally closing his eyes and joining you in your peaceful sleep.

[jaguarguard]

you know I Look out for You darlin'

Ronin Beaufort x Reader

You're overstimulated and shut down, and Angel isn't getting any responses from you anymore, so she sends her ultimate weapon. Ronin.

Me? Get obsessed and hyperfixated over a game with dangerous people in it? idk what you're talking about. Tags: Ronin/Reader, Gender neutral reader, AuDHD Reader, Neurodivergent Reader, Shutdown, Overstimulation, Fluff, Comfort, Angst, Soft Ronin Beaufort

Find more of my stuff!

Masterlist AO3

It has been a… long day, to say the least, your ears ringing and eyes still letting go of echoes of bright lights where you work, the slightest touch sets you on edge, rubbing you the wrong way that you just can't cope with. Every sound is too much, you can't even bring yourself to write, so you just lay in your desk chair, with your softest blanket underneath you to avoid any more unwanted overstimulation from touching the chair.

The slaughterhouse is open on your desktop, your private chat with Angel is what you've left it as, staring at the worried responses she's sent you all day when you told her just how exhausted you are.

Notifications start, and you fight through the full body tired you feel, dragging your leaden arm up to mute the server, dropping it when you've hit the buttons and you can't push yourself any further. Still, you watch the messages flow, unable to puzzle out how to turn down the brightness of your desktop when your mind is so overloaded with thoughts the way it is right now.

Misaki seems to be yapping with Luca about something, you're struggling to process exactly what it is they're talking about, but you try to read the messages anyway. And oh, Felicie has joined now too, of course, wherever Luca is, she isn't far behind. Angel and V pipe up every now and then, making small comments on the side, and you still haven't worked out what's going on, even when Vince and Ai Hua come into the conversation. The flow of messages oddly soothes you, consistent and calming, even though the constant movement on your screen adds to the overstimulation you feel. Until eventually even that movement is too much, so now you're just looking at the send button.

It occurs to you that the only person not talking now (apart from you and The Executioner Bot) is Ronin, which… is not something you have the energy to deal with right now. So you sit there, silent and unmoving, knees pressed to your chest and hands in between, hating the way your skin feels, wishing there was a way to pull it off and rinse it clean until it felt right again, fighting not to reach your hands into your hair and drag the greasiness up into it and make you feel worse (even though you just washed your hair yesterday, it shouldn't feel like this already) or pick at your face, nails digging sharply into anything that sticks out, making your skin feel worse than it already does.

And you're so overwhelmed, and bone tired, any movement seems like too much, even though you'd like to be curled up in a ball in the smallest, darkest place you can fit into. Your hair brushes your skin and you hug your limbs closer, avoiding the itchy painful touch that makes you want to cry and scream (but you never do).

You want to pull your hair out of your scalp, you need your skin off your face and arms and hands and scalp and you need it all off now (you whimper into your knees). Maybe… maybe if you ask… but you're so tired it hurts, it aches and you want your limbs severed too, take them off, make them stop, cut the muscles to loosen them up and make it all stop hurting please (tears sting your skin from where you've scrubbed too hard)(you cry but it doesn't make a sound)

Something screams and your hands snap up to block your ears, eyes squeezing shut until you realise it was your computer, another notification. It screams again (it's not a scream, it's not, but it's so loud) but before you can do anything, Ronin's chat replaces main.

<goreboy> an angel told me that something Is up with you darling

care to Let me help with what's going On?

And oh, you forgot that Angel and Ronin are so close, and that Angel cares about you too, so if she can't help, she'll get Ronin.

The messages sit there for a couple of minutes, and you stare at them, even the thought of moving your arms to type out a response hurts. So you wait.

<goreboy> it's Very cruel of you to sit there and ignore me

after Everything i'm trying to do for You, baby

There's another long pause, as though he's waiting for you to respond (your muscles are pulled tight as ropes, and you can't loosen them, joints aching in a way you can't fix)

<goreboy> Okay, i'm calling U.

Your hands are up to your ears again when the wailing starts (he's ringing you), fingers clenching into your hair, pulling it tight and painful (you're sobbing silently into your knees, lips forming pleas for it to stop, but no sound comes out)

And then it stops (you're still crying, the tears sting your cheeks and you want your skin off so bad why does it hurt) hands are still gripping your hair, threatening to pull chunks out but you can't manage to loosen your grip.

Ronin takes in the image of you, skin bare and shivering, knuckles white where you're clenching your hair, head bowed almost to your knees, but not touching, red lines trailing up your forearms where your nails have dragged against your skin, and his chest tightens, "Shit darlin'."

A gasping sob comes from you, and your head lifts up, eyes locking onto your boyfriend (great, your heart aches now too)

"Darlin, okay, breathe in for me?"

No response comes, your gaze has dropped slightly, taking a shuddering breath, the tears have started to hurt worse now, and one of your hands drops, roughly wiping your tears away and whining when it stings painfully.

"Baby? Fuck, alright hold on, I'm coming over, I'll be there in a moment." Ronin's standing up, leaning over the keyboard, and your heart stops, (he's leaving you) "Can you, shit, you gonna be fine if I leave the call? Cause you're not fine, so I'm thinking I move this to my phone while I'm on my way. Can you nod your head for me darlin' if that sounds like a good idea."

You swallow thickly, and nod your head slowly, eyes now on the ground, so you don't see the way Ronin's shoulders lower in relief, softening at the reassurance that you're still with him.

"Good, good, oh darlin', okay, I'm going to take a minute, but I'll be back, I'm not going to ring," Ronin's lips quirk up, and one hand is lifted up, fingers are pressed to his lips before he tilts his hand back and blowing, "And I'm calling your phone this time, so turn off your computer."

Your eyes are shut again when you hear the call sound end, and you tiredly move your hand to the mouse and shut down your desktop. Dragging yourself out of the chair is hard, but eventually you're on the floor, curled up under the desk with your blanket laid out underneath you.

Cool hard plastic digs into your palms as you clutch your phone tightly, not noticing when Ronin has called you.

The room around you is dark, so dark Ronin can barely make out your face, mainly seeing a silhouette of your head. You've moved, that much he can tell, but where? he isn't quite sure.

He's got earbuds in now, to try and block out the background noise of the outside world, but he mutes himself when he goes outside, just in case.

It's not much, to be on call with you, he's mostly focused on getting to you as quickly as possible. That being said, he still checks his phone every ten seconds, just to see in case you've moved, in case he's missed something, in case something has happened to you when he wasn't looking.

But you're still there, curled up and unmoving in the dark, never making a sound.

Soon enough he's at your place, keys in hand, jingling quietly as he puts it into the lock, twisting it until it clicks open, and then he's in, hanging up the call, shoes off by the door which he locks behind himself, keys placed on the table before he pads through to your room.

Blinds are closed, lights are off, and you're nowhere to be seen. Not curled up in your bed like he'd expected, so he starts to search the floor, eyes tracking over every centimeter, before he has to step further into your room. Only then does he notice the blanket peeking out from under your desk, and he smiles.

Ronin doesn't even have to think, crouching down beside your desk, reaching a hand out to you, offering, but never pushing.

"I'm here now darlin' why don't you come out, hm? I'm sure the bed would be much more comfortable."

You don't take his hand, still curled tight as tight can be, shaking your head violently and gasping uneven breaths.

"Shit, alright baby, I'mma get a pillow to sit on then, and I'm gonna get your drink bottle while I'm up. I'll be back in a moment sweet thing."

He stands, grabbing a pillow off your bed and finding your drink bottle where it's perched on the bedside table, deciding that it's not even nearly full enough, Ronin leaves the room quietly to fill it up before returning to you.

The quiet house gives Ronin time to think on the whole situation. He knows about your neurodivergence, but what-

Oh. Oh.

Overstimulation seems to be one part of this, the fact that you're undressed aside from the bare minimum, the soft blanket that was on your chair but now on your floor, giving you something safe to touch, your reaction to him calling the first time, hands clamped over your ears, the whine when something touched your face, all the lights being off, and the blinds closed. Shit he should have noticed earlier.

And shutdown would be the rest, unable to talk, give much of any response, the desire to be curled up so tight and safe, somewhere small, the exhaustion he saw when you made any movements at all.

So he returns to your room, places your drink bottle down close to you so that you're able to reach it, and he sits, with his hand placed on the soft blanket, so that you know he's there.

Ronin doesn't really know how long the two of you stay there, he watches the way your form relaxes over time, grip becoming looser, limbs drooping to the floor. Eventually you finally reach for your drink bottle, taking a few sips before resettling, still curled up, but nowhere near as tight as before.

There's a soft smile on his face when you look up at him for the first time today, when he takes off his jacket, folding it up and placing it away from both of you, relaxing back into the wall.

Through it all, his hand remains outstretched, and when your face stops stinging as much, and you can't feel every follicle of hair, every bit of oil or grease on your skin, when your limbs start to hurt less, and your muscles don't feel quite as tight, you reach back, taking his hand in both of yours, and moving, slowly, wobbling like a baby deer, until you're in his lap, curling into Ronin, head buried in his chest, inhaling the familiar, comforting scent.

"There we go, just keep breathing for me darlin', I've got you." Ronin pauses, "Can I hold you? Nod your head if I can, otherwise-"

You're nodding your head, and arms are wrapped around you instantly, holding you closer, warmth surrounding you (you're safe).

And you're held, for what feels like eternity and less than a second, before your limbs go lax in Ronin's grasp and your breathing evens out. When he looks down at you, your eyes are shut, and you finally look peaceful. So Ronin scoops you into his arms, and carries you over to your bed, laying you down and tucking you in, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

He stands, searching for a scrap of paper and a pencil to write with, finding some and jotting out a note in case you wake up before he finishes making dinner.

Your arms clumsily wrap around Ronin from behind, resting your cheek on the back of his shoulder.

"Hey there darlin'." You can hear Ronin's smile (and boy is he smiling), "How'd you sleep?"

"Good." You mumble, still fighting off the last bits of sleep, "Miss'd you."

"Oh aren't you just the sweetest." Ronin twists in your arms until he's facing you, one hand on your waist, the other on the small of your back, and he leans in, pressing his lips to your neck and whispering, "I missed you too."

boy do i love making characters soft :) Killer chat has eaten away at my brain and there is nothing else left guys. I'm feral now.

[livindalie]

NSFW Alphabet — Ronin Beaufort

Ronin

You (m and f friendly)

A – Aftercare, what he is like after sex:

Not overly sweet, but not his usual mockery either. A few kisses on your face, hands feeling you to make sure you aren’t gone and are there, maybe teases you a little, mostly looks out of it like his mind is elsewhere.

“I’m…fine. I suppose it’s…making me feel some type of way. C’mere, let’s stay like this for a few more minutes.”

“…Hm, that was kinda adorable.”

B – Body, his favorite part of you and himself:

Ronin’s favorite part of your body would not be anything you expect, probably. Being such a hard person to read, he had never directly told you he adored some particular part of you. When asked, Ronin would joke he loves your pretty little head because it is just so crackable with a crowbar– though in his rotten mind he has a thing for your thighs.

They are so delicious looking in a way that has him grab them every once in a while; when you are just sitting, Ronin would trail a finger down on your thigh and grin when you give him a look. Would absolutely grab and leave finger marks during intimacy, he loves leaving prints on you, or have your thighs wrapped around his waist or head.

“Yeah darlin’ spread them just like that or I might fuckin’ snap them open.”

“Easy, fucking easy Ronin, ow!”

As for himself, Ronin is proud of everything. His arms. He built them swinging.

C – Cum, where does he like to cum on you?

He doesn’t exactly have a favorite, the sex itself matters more to him but if he had to absolutely choose, it would be your face or inside. He loves how you get riled up when he messes your pretty face with his cum, looking up at him with those shameless and fierce eyes while your lips and cheeks are literally sticky.

Inside you is mostly because majority of the time he is too into it and wants you to feel him and milk him dry, all while he mumbles horrible praises one should be offended with but you are out of your mind and are into it. He loves how sick you are for him.

“Fuuck, aren’t you a good one? Keep those eyes on me, shit, so obsessed with me yeah?”

“Fuck you. You are so gross.”

D – Dirty Secret, pretty self explanatory- a dirty secret of theirs:

Well…Ronin is pretty grotesque and you do love that about him, but he is not really the one to keep anything he wants a secret with what he wants to do with you sexually.

However,

He did keep one thing hidden. One little thing that gets him going even when alone, and one he didn’t say because he wasn’t sure if you were ready yet.

Taking you in a bloody bath. Your body slipping from his grip due to blood, engaging in multiple sins at once, the smell of iron suffocating you both as he pressed your head down in the puddle. What was better than marking your love with blood and gore?

“Look so pretty when your face is covered in guts baby, lift up and let me see- damn, a fucking masterpiece.”

“I smell terrible it can’t be that good.”

E – Experience, how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?

He is in his early 20s, had two lovers before you and I presume he had sex with his Ther in their times if things were similar to what they had in GG. He does not fuck around, he never had flings because he doesn’t want to screw someone he isn’t intimate with.

But that doesn’t mean this man doesn’t know what he is doing. He is very good, he is very observant and notices every little reaction. Knows where to grab, touch; how to thrust, pace and arrange his roughness. He knows exactly what he is doing, and you are done.

“Wanna be my Virgin Marry, darlin’? Oh, no? Don’t like that? Well, then maybe you can be my Lilith.”

“….I dunno about that baby.”

F – Favorite Position, this goes without saying:

Him on top of you, against the wall, from the back while your face is pressed down so hard you can’t breath; he likes seeing your face more, your reactions to everything he is doing. He wants your nails digging into his skin like stakes, back arched towards him like he is your salvation, he likes marking your skin with harsh hickeys so you facing him is his favorite.

“This is a bit intimate, isn’t it darlin’? Shit, you are so fucking pretty when you are dying for me.”

“My god-“

“No god here baby, just me.”

G – Goofy, are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.

Oh, I think we all know this man loves teasing you and being humorous during it. He is never completely serious. Even when he is being serious. It’s not that he isn’t taking sex with you seriously, he just can’t help loving you this way. He sees it as something to be truly connected and his feelings just pour out in teases and jokes that sometimes has you giggling as well, sometimes irritated.

“Let’s just cuddle and if it slips in, it slips in.”

“Ronin i swear to god-“

H – Hair, how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes?

He is buzzed, not clean shaved. He takes pride in being clean and then likes ruining that. Thats what he is, he ruins things. He loves rotting things. Sometimes leaves it off, it is nice to see hair growing over his marks, makes him feel confident and he feels he looks good.

“I haven’t shaved yet. You don’t mind? Hahaha, that’s gross. What?.. Don’t give me those eyes. Relaxxx, I’m merely kidding.”

“You will be my 13th reason.”

I – Intimacy, how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect:

He loves letting you start the intimacy, seeing you wanting him; your romance was not the usual kind, Ronin was a romantic in his head, and in your head- his rotten praises, your teases, his mockery, your speechlessness…He is intense, intimate and utterly grotesque.

“But you love that, don’t you?”

“Shut your pie hole.”

J – Jack off, masturbation headcanon:

Ronin much rather to have you than masturbate. Why would he stroke himself alone when you are completely corrupted by him, wanting him as he was? But he likes mutual masturbation. You touching yourself, fingers glistening with your arousal because you were watching him jerking off with almost no reaction and utterly unable to touch him.

“Want it? Hmm, do it a bit faster and maybe I will let you.”

“Please.”

K - Kink, one or more of their kinks:

Bondage, edging and knife play. You can get crazy often during intimacy and he takes advantage of that to force you further, binds your wrists to the bedpost with a belt while he slowly teases you.

He has a small pocket knife he carries for emergencies, and though he doesn’t nick you, (unless you are actually into that) he hovers it, caresses your skin because you like the anticipation and the risk, and he likes your excitement.

If you were into actual knife play, he wouldn’t mind leaving small cuts at precise times to add to your pleasure when you are close to your orgasm.

“Do you like the feeling, darlin’?”

“Uh- no- this is fucking burning!” “do it more”

L - Location, favorite places to do the do:

Purgatory. Goes without saying and sounds cliche but it means a lot to both of you. It’s the place you two saw each other first, shared a kiss and fucked against the wall. He could never forget that day. It’s his favorite playground, in every aspect. It symbolizes you having the chance of being pure and a saint but choosing to fall and be corrupted with him instead. And he fucking loves that.

“You know the drill, baby. Hands around my neck and hoist those legs up around my waist.”

“You are over 6 feet Ronin, help me up.”

M - Motivation, what turns them on, gets them going:

Ronin loves bickering with you, even over the simplest things like an argument about if you can pee in the shower or not, he can turn it into a joke which makes you even angrier and you walk up to him, eyes raging, and he is in the mood.

If you do finally kill someone, call him and he sees you in blood, freshly having taken a life, your eyes sparkling with a thrill so familiar to him, proudly asking his help to carve out the aorta and fuck he is hard. You are not carving that aorta anymore.

N – No, what is his absolute no?

If you know him enough, Ronin is not the type to judge you for anything you want. He would be down to try it if you are so excited for it, if you give your consent to him. One single thing he would absolutely not do or attempt is forcing you into anything. Even when it was your first kiss, he let you choose to do it. He let you want to grab him and kiss him. He would not do anything without confirmation and consent.

“Yeah? You want this? Tell me you do. I want- no, need to hear it.”

O - Oral, preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.

Goes both ways, favors giving— more like favors making you beg and cry so he actually gives. He is an amazing eater, skilled with his pierced tongue, knows exactly how rough and where to lick and suck until your legs are shaking. He bites, definitely. Laughs into your skin when you hiss and pull on his hair. He loves denying you relief, and loves how you are too eager to suck him off too.

“Oh well, what do we say darling? No, not please. What am I, Christ? A please is not enough. Tell me what you want, and I will do it. Anything. Say it. Say, ‘I want you to eat me out Ronin.’”

“I am not saying that asshole. This is a feast, take it or leave it.”

P - Pace, how fast/slow he goes:

Slow and deep when he is feeling like teasing you, hands hold down your waist so you take it. Fast and still deep when he is done teasing and is too aroused to go in a steady pace. He is consistent too, once he starts going fast he will keep it fast.

“Faster? You want me to go faster? Damn darlin’, okay. I will make you feel every inch, every bit.”

Q - Quickie, thoughts and experiences:

Loves them. Would go anywhere. First time you found and went to his workplace where he works as a mechanic, he was wearing a white sleeveless shirt because of the heat, drenched in sweat and grease and oh boy you went feral even he was surprised. Took you in your car, a silent quickie and you didn’t even take off your clothes. He never let you live it down and when you texted him you needed him when he was at work, he would reply he could always go for a quick sex.

“Come over with the car, I only need 5 minutes to send you over to the other side.”

“5 MINUTES?!”

R – Risk, what risks is he willing to take?

Literally anything. Ronin gets off on the thrill of the unpredictability because it directly opposes pre-destiny, he would bend you over in the literal alleyway you two met in and pound you shamelessly. Which he did. He mainly knows nothing will happen, but he loves to keep you on your toes and make you clench around him thinking you can get caught at any time, begging him to go faster and trying oh so hard to stay quiet. You were so oblivious in the haze of pleasure.

“Gotta be quick? No, I want to take my time with you. Aww, is my little writer afraid they will get caught with the Butcher balls deep inside them?”

“Oh my god- fuck- I am going to murder you if we get caught. Go faster.”

S – Stamina, how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?

With this literal devil’s killer stamina? Four. And more. A small break when you finger yourself, then he can keep going. Ideally, one or two is enough for him but if you are insatiable and he is insatiable good luck because every time his effort is the same and he looks a lot more sexier the more orgasms you give him.

“You want another one? Darlin’ do you want to completely drain me?”

“Oh I am going to drain you alright. Of your fucking blood.”

T - do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?

I feel like he doesn’t own toys, he didn’t need them for himself and since he wasn’t in an active relationship he didn’t need to own any. After you though, if you do have any toys you wanted to use he would be all in for it. He would make you use a vibrator while all of you are in a voice call playing mafia and you have to keep yourself together while he keeps making implied statements.

“I think you are the mafia darlin’. Because you seem to be stuttering a lot and your voice is shaking. Are you lying?”

“…you shsure are having fun, aren’t you.”

U - Unfair, how much they like to tease:

A lot. Bunch of. The devil has an edging kink and a thing for hearing you beg, writhe and struggle he would absolutely tease you to tears. Tease you with his tip before entering you, tease you with his tongue- never quite putting it on where you want, hands teasing, even words are teasing.

“You are doing great baby.”

“Oh I hate you so much…”

V - Volume, how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.

Groans. Not a whimperer. Sharp grunts followed by a huffed laugh and a mockery. He also dirty talks, he is pretty loud but not too loud, not as loud as you that’s for sure. It is a way to show you he is loving every minute of you, how good you feel, how much he loves you.

“Feel so fuckin’ good baby, fuck-“

W - Wild card, a random headcanon for the character:

He loves being caressed. Not in a gentle way but like you are tracing his body like trying to memorize it. Nails scraping against his toned stomach, thighs, lips brushing his jaw, neck, throat, fingertips around his nipples— he goes mad for it. Once you discovered how much it turns him on and gets his breathing quickened, you abused it so much it became foreplay.

“…shit, hahh.”

“…did you just whine?”

X – X-ray, what lies beneath those clothes?

Pretty strong and lean. Not bulky. He doesn’t work out in the usual sense, he has arms day every day- at work as a mechanic and when he was swinging his crowbar to crush skulls. So his biceps are firm. Though they are not exactly stone, he also has abs, you could feel the firmness if you touched his abdomen.

As for his size, Ronin is approximately 17 cms. Which is very ideal considering his situation. It’s not too thick not too thin, pink tip, and the marks of his operation.

“You like what you see?”

He would eat your reactions up.

Y - Yearning, how high is their sex drive?

Ronin is not one of the constantly horny guys, rather some things you do drives him feral and he just has to feel you; know that you are there, alive and with him. So when it’s a normal day, in the server, just talking etc. he doesn’t think of sex that much.

When he is hunting and killing? Oh he yearns. The thrill pumps blood straight to his cock when he remembers you, sees the ghost of you fucking in Purgatory and calls you to see if you are home.

“Darlin’? Are you home? Yeah? Good.”

“What the fuck, are you coming to kill me or something?”

Z - Zzz, how quickly they fall asleep afterwards

He will watch you fall asleep first. Running his knuckles over your cheek, his fingers through your hair until your teases and conversations die down to a peaceful sleep. He likes seeing how safe you look with him, you trusted him so much, and he wasn’t going to refuse. Falls asleep right after.

“…Are you asleep?…Yes, you are. Well I’m… I. I like you, darlin’. I love-…love you.”

[poni-ponie]

Sexy Boy

Yeah, he (stole)rented an apartment — a safe space for the both of you to meet up in. You’re his love, after all. His sweeet little opiate. Even if you are with those cleaners, who gives a fuck? You’re only meeting up with one of the men that threaten their cause! No biggie.

CW: FLUFF + NSFW, cunnilingus, dry humping, biting (gentle), fingering, choking, riding, penetrative sex — Jabber is a little freak. So is reader.

WC: 5.3k

“Sooooo?”

Jabber removes his hands from your eyes, resting them snug on your hips while you're left soundless at the sight of a well polished room. Blinking owlishly as you realize what you’re looking at.

An apartment.

Jabber insisted each time you snuck out of base that he’d rather hang with you in an actual room. He’d pout on about being unable to stay in your room in the Cleaner’s base — and you being unable to stay in his room back at the Raider's.

He did the next best thing. Carved out a loophole and somehow made it work.

Your mouth opens. Then closes again.

“Jabber, you didn’t —“

“Nah, I didn’t pay for the room. Most of the lil’ trinkets I collected myself though.”

He rounds from behind you — huge Cheshire grin on his face as he eyes your expression. Clearly proud of his work.

And … admittedly, it's sweet.

Your eyes soften as you look around the room loosely. Decor. Posters. Plushies. Trinkets. A bed and dressers. Purple flowers. A piercing kit(?) — a gaming console and cartridges he probably stole.

In a strange way, he's like a pigeon decorating a nest. It’s a little unstable but absolutely cute.

“Jabber …” You smile, cupping the apples of his cheeks and kissing the tip of his nose. Jabber grins, nuzzling into your face and sneaking a swift bite to your jaw.

“I was serious about us having a space to hang in when we sneak out,” he ushers you over to the bed. “Sick of those cleaners hogging all the goodies. What they ever do to get somethin’ as pretty as you?”

You couldn’t find it in you to defend the others, at least not now. Sitting on the edge of the bed, you feel around the sheets.

Real silk. Not half assed.

“You didn’t have to.” You say, albeit quiet. Feeling a little emotional with the amount of effort he put into the space to make it homey — even if it was just some ‘room’ to hang out in at night.

Jabber's brows screw together as he recognizes your quietness. Plopping onto the bed after you.

“None of that,” he drawls. The last thing he wanted to see after he surprised you with an apartment was a frown on that gorgeous mug. Hell, this was the very tip of the iceberg for the things he’d do for you!

So? He does something you can’t resist smiling at.

His arms wrap around your shoulders and his head dips — his tongue lolling out of his lips as he licks a looooong stripe up your pretty cheek.

You exclaim and attempt to squirm away but Jabber snarls against your skin, fangs bared as he closes his jaw around your ear in a gentle bite. Punishment for trying to break away from his affection.

“Jabber — stop that!” You protest with a wide grin. He plants wet kisses against whatever skin he can reach for his last act before he finally lets you rip away. You fist your skin an attempt to rid the saliva cooling over your face, playfully glaring at him. He blows a condescending kiss toward you, knowing you wouldn’t get that feeling of his smothering love off of you.

"Swear I'll put a muzzle on you one day," You giggle, unable to fight back a timid smile. Jabber pouts mockingly.

"Y'know I'd love nothing more than that."

"Whore."

"You know it."

A demented smile twitches onto his face as a new thought drifts over his head.

“Y’know I’d fuck up a looot of people to give you somethin’ as small as a kitten, pretty.” He says dreamily, lost in his own fantasy. You stop wiping your face to give him a look.

“... You didn’t do that for the apartment, did you?”

He grins, fangs overlapping his bottom teeth.

“This time? Nah — too easy to threaten the guy ownin’ the building. Just told em’ I was a raider and boom. Apartment to myself,” he kisses your forehead, “and my gorgeous wifey.”

Your smile deepens — toeing your boots off and letting them clatter to the ground.

“Wifey, huh?” You muse. Scooting back until your back hits the headboard. Getting comfortable in the space provided as your arms reach for one of the amputated plushes he rounded up for decor, "That's a new one.”

Jabber stays seated on the edge of the bed, content with you getting comfy in the room he basically put together for you. His catty, magenta irises fixed on you. Watching the way your cheek rests snug against the worn fur of the plushie.

The way your body wrinkles the sheets beneath you.

The way the bare, yummy soft skin of your thighs contrast the purple fabric.

His hand idly drifts over to your ankle. Slowly stroking the skin while he bites the inside of his cheek. You have the nerve to look so succulent sweet, mangling his thoughts — and you're not even doing anything.

You're staring right back at him, biting back a taunt for his uncharacteristic silence when you realize he's drinking you in. Savoring what he can for the next few hours before you have to take yourself back to the cleaners.

But when you notice his obvious attention to your thighs, you buffer and break the silence.

"The piercing kit," you nod toward the far corner. Where the plastic box sits beside the video game cartridges. "What's it for?"

Jabber blinks, following your eyes and finding the bin of studs and needles.

"Ohhh, that. For piercing. Duh."

You kick his thigh, earning a laugh straight from his chest as he crawls after you to the headboard. His hand gliding up to your thigh and nestling in the dip of your waist as he sits against the chipped wood.

He wishes you'd kicked him harder.

He folds his fingers over his chest, watching you longingly.

“Want you to give me a few piercings,” he admits. Eyes half lidded as his hand snakes beneath your shirt — nails gliding against the warm skin of your tummy while he tests your waters.

He's delighted to watch you nuzzle into the plushie while he touches you.

“Because I trust you and everything. Pretty thing like you pokin’ holes in me? I’d die the happiest fucker in the world.” He says with a drawl, fingers wandering on down to that hip bone of yours unblinkingly.

Your shoulders shake with a quiet laugh, melting at the gentleness of his touch.

“You just wanna feel the pain that comes with it, freak.”

He hums in consideration, twirling one of his locs around a finger. “Well that, and I think piercings are sexy. You wanna make me look sexy, don’t you?” He drags out his words, clearly roused by the thought.

The corner of your lip twitches into a smile, hand departing the plushie and running the knuckles along his cheek. Jabber responds like an eager kitten given attention, leaning into your sweet affectionate touches as you speak with a bold tongue.

“You look sexy enough.” You remark into the fabric. Jabber's pupils dilate ever so slightly, awed by your playful yet ... sweet words.

“Like .. really sexy.” You add faintly.

For a moment, he’s quiet as a church mouse.

Then, his eyes twinkle while he processes your words.

The underbelly of an invitation, is what that was. You always either teased or laughed off his suggestiveness.

This time? You eased into it on your own accord. And he’d be damned if he didn’t take that opportunity to crack your shell a little more.

His eyes never stray from your expression as he gently pries the plushie from your arms. Tossing it away to some unknown corner of the bed so that he’d have your attention instead. Full and undivided.

With those darling cleaner eyes of yours on him .. he could eat you up right now.

"You know what those words do to me?" He remarks. Eyes fixated on your lips while he takes one of your pretty hands and clasps it against the side of his face. Your tongue feels too fat for your own mouth as you wait for him to finish.

“Makes me wanna tear you away from them cleaners forever," He gently nips the tip of your thumb. "Be a selfish asshole and keep you all to myself."

You breathe quietly. Thumb gently poking at his lower lip - only to twitch away before he can wrap his lips around it. He childishly pouts at the missed opportunity.

"Is that what you want, Jabs'?"

"Yes ma'am."

Jabber's always flirty and stupidly affectionate - yet you haven't seen this side of him yet. He's love drunk.

"And get this," He starts.

"Get what?"

He grins again. Nodding toward the nightstand.

"Right in that lil' second drawer? Loads of fuckin' condoms. Like .. packages on packages."

A blanket of silence engulfs the room. Your thumb twitches away from his mouth as you process his words. Raunchy, unabashed, and most of all? You could tell he wasn't lying. You caught the plastic wrapping for some sort of gas station box in the trash bin a while ago.

In the midst of your silence, Jabber's wolfish grin only grows wider.

"You're nasty." You couldn't help but chortle at his obscenity. Jabber reaches up and cups your cheek this time, Mankira's rings cold against your skin.

"You love me, pretty girl." He coos. Using a forefinger and thumb to squeeze your chin and gently shake your head in his grip.

You snicker and nestle your face into his touch. Lips meeting his thumb in a chaste peck — It makes his eyes shimmer where he sits.

"Maybe I do."

Then, eyes lock again. They don't waver once as Jabber decides then and there that the cleaners do not fucking deserve you.

He'd always ruled out love as some fiction fantasy only the privileged, happy-go-lucky passed around.

Now?

He can agree with those optimistic punks on this one thing.

He jolts forward, his nose knocking against yours before his lips crash into your own. Slovenly but affectionate.

And god, whenever you kiss him? Your lips feel so velvety soft it sickens him. Melting his mind so that he's nothing more than a dog in front of you.

A stupid and horny mutt.

The room is hushed. Save for the sticky sound of the deep kiss Jabber refuses to depart from. Sounds that you have to ignore or else the low heat between your thighs would spread and become unbearable. He forces himself to break away, tearing off his hoodie and getting right back into it.

"You're the most addictive .. mm .. prettiest thing ever," Jabber lilts into the kiss. You whine, absently fisting the sheets while his tongue glides against yours.

He refuses to let the opportunity slip from his fingers. Let you slip from his greedy claws.

Not giving you a wink of time to catch your breath, he grapples your waist and hauls you into his lap but never breaking the lip lock.

"You've been temptin' me all night." His words drift off to somewhere in the room, your thighs rested snug on either side of his legs.

"I haven't even done anything" You muse. Pleased by how easy it is to turn him on. Fingers looped behind his neck to push his lips tight your own.

"Exactly," He breaths. "So pretty and you don't even know half of it. 'Specially these gorgeous thighs you have," accentuating his point, his hand slithers beneath you and holds a globe of your ass in hand. Kneading the fat with a moan. You gasp — and he uses that moment to gently chew your lower lip.

"Could fuck 'em just like this," His breath falters at the thought, eyes rolling into the back of his skull. "You don't know what ya do to me. It's crazy."

You have an idea of what you do to him. For one, you’re his anchor — he’s a little more sane with you. But at the same time, you're a drug he can never replicate. Making his brain all dumb and easy with incomprehensible thoughts of lust.

Your twitching thigh betrays your arousal, you're unable to squeeze them together to relieve yourself. And Jabber notices you struggle.

Oh he notices alright.

Slowly, he breaks the kiss, looking you up and down condescendingly. He has a drunken, lazy grin on his face. Lips slick with your spit as he slowly bites his lip.

"How about it then, wifey?"

He hikes you further up his pelvis ... so you make contact with an obstacle straining his pants. Your eyes flutter down as you realize, in the midst of kissing, Jabber has grown insanely hard. Your eyes flit back up to see he’s gone blank. Drunk off your spit.

He tilts his head languidly.

"Let's fuck, huh?"

He said it in such a gravelly deep tone, you nearly forgot you were a cleaner. Most likely had a job to attend to in the morning.

You weigh your options.

A potential cleaning in the morning? Or a good fuck with your pretty raider. Who, worth mentioning, nested a second little home for you and himself.

The faint throb in your tummy picks the ladder. And so does your common sense.

Jabber watches you with wild eyes. Running a hand along your plushy thigh as he awaits for your response. Sure, he's horny off his head and he’d want nothing more than to bend you in half and pound you silly into the mattress — but he wants your consent above anything else. He can’t make his sweet girl feel good if she doesn’t want it.

You press a lecherous kiss to the underside of his jaw. Gently biting the skin. Jabber breathlessly moans in response.

"That a yes, baby?" He queries quietly, leg bouncing excitedly while you nip at his olive skin. You nod, fingers wandering over the thick tent adding weight to his lap.

"I have ... an hour or two left." You nod toward the door. "Before I have to head back to base."

Jabber grins, flashing sharp but pearly white teeth.

He knew you had it in you. His dirty little cleaner was juuust as filthy as he was.

His black nails scoop you up and mold your ass directly over his clothed cock. Grinding you down on his shaft manually before you take the reigns and rock your hips, the bed gently groaning from the movement.

Mutually, Jabber's hips up and roll up into yours. A dizzying chuckle leaving him as he imagines those other cleaners. And that they had no idea what pretty little Y/N was doing under their noses.

"Atta' girl .. yeah, just like that," He captures your pillowy lips with his own. His hand voraciously squeezes your ass, you whimper before you could stop it. And he swallows it with grace.

Jabber's in wonderland - watching his pretty girl get herself off.

Practically tasting the warmth pulsating from between those soft thighs of yours. So pillowy and soft and ... fuck.

He can't just let you get in on all the fun without him. Bumping that perfect little clit against his heavy bulge ... and you haven’t even taken any clothes off yet!

What kind of boyfriend would he be if he made you come so lamely?

"C'mere baby," He uses the strength in his forearms as he shifts you, "Need to make you feel nice and mushy. Better than you've ever felt."

He rolls you beneath his body, Your head landing on one of the mismatched pillows as he presses dramatic, wet kisses down your neck. Nose nuzzling into your skin on his way down as if he refused to part from you for even a second.

Until he reaches your tummy where he flips your shirt up hungrily. And gets right back to work, worming his tongue along your hip bone before biting it.

"Jabs' - fuck, slow down .." You giggle beneath your breath, he looks up at you from beneath his silky lashes. A crooked smirk hanging off his jaw as he bites the zipper of your shorts.

"How could I when I got all I ever need in front a' me, huh?" He slurs and drags the zipper down your crotch languidly. The sound contrasts the low ambiance of cars just outside of the window.

You leverage yourself on your elbows as you watch him jerk the fabric off your thighs. Avidly smooching each inch of skin feeding his gaze as he slings the shorts to some unknown corner of the room.

For a lengthy pause, Jabber's quiet. His attention fixated on your undergarment, tilting his head dollishly.

"Purple, huh?"

His quip comes out airy. He felt his cock twitch in his pants.

You look away sheepishly. Because you just so happened to wear his favorite color tonight of all nights, right?

But Jabber doesn't dwell on the thought. Instead, tightly grabs and blooms your thighs apart, the skin of your thighs spilling between his fingers deliciously.

He lays himself on his belly, level with the heaven you kept between your flawless legs.

His thumb crawls up the imprint of your slit - made a little more visible with your sweet slick dampening them.

You feel your clit lowly thrum as you watch Jabber discover you with awe. His nubile eyes twinkling when he feels your thigh jump from his light touch, thumb ghosting over your dressed nub.

"Quit teasing'," you fuss. Barely a whisper of breath while he teases you.

"Someone's psyched.." Jabber muses, enraptured watching how sensitive you react to his touch.

Twitching and jumping from some grazing? Oh he'll have fun.

Suddenly he hooks a finger on the strap of your panties. You help him take them off by arching your hips and curling up your legs. The lace gently scraping down your skin as he eventually pulls them off your ankles. Niiice and slow.

Then he balls the fabric up in a fist.

Dropping his head right on down to those cute lace panties and pressing the hump of his nose against the crotch, taking a looong sniff in. Exhaling orgasmically.

An unabashed giggle chirps from his lips as he watches you cringe. Stuffing your soiled panties in the pocket of his pants.

"For safe keepin'. Don't worry, I'll give them back to ya. … Someday." he returns to your awaiting pussy. Hiking the backs of your thighs over his broad shoulders.

Admittedly, watching him scrape up remnants of your scent was hot.

"You can keep them," You get comfortable, crossing your legs behind his skull.

"Wasn't givin' 'em back," he sneers.

Two of Jabber’s thumbs snake up each soft lip of your cunt. Parting them and tackling your clit with his strong tongue. You gasp, fingers grasping his locs to stabilize yourself as he bullies your sensitive nub.

Your back arches off the silk sheets, hands claiming purchase on his voluminous locs to stable yourself while you take it. Take his confident licks and listen to the obscene slurping that rings off the cracked wallpapers. Feeling his saliva bead down to your ass as he sloppily munches on you.

"F - Fuck.." You whine breathlessly, "You're, mm, good at that."

Jabber was muses at your compliment, glancing up at you from between your adorably wobbly thighs.

"You sound surprised, baby. You wound me," he slurps your swollen clit into his lips. Wide eyes watching your expression contort while he keeps your hips pinned to the bed sheets. His nails printing small crescent moons into your skin in effort to keep you nice and still — refusing to let you squirm away even an inch as his tongue splits your chubby pussy lips apart.

“You taste so fucking good. Can't get," slurp, "Enough of you."

Jabber's having a blast. But when he suddenly feels you claw at his locs? He could nut in his pants right there. With no shame.

Your cries are music to his ears. He fights back a smile as to not disturb his ministrations, smacking your ass with a strong right hand and enjoying the short lived squeal he got out of you. Squeezing the supple fat to numb the sting.

"Feels... really, hmmph, Fuck. I'm getting close," You whine, gliding your sensitive clit against his nose.

“Thash right baby,” He slurs, “Fuck my fuckin’ face..” He shakes his head before departing from your cunt with a small mwah, his fingers hovering over your heat.

He wonders how, decorated in his spit, your pussy managed to look even prettier than before. With your clit swollen, and your cute little hole clenching around nothing.

Then the rest of you. All flustered and trembling from being on the verge of a hot orgasm. Pupils all dilated and hopeful behind your silky lashes, your fingers clutching his locs so hard he (hopes)figures it might scar his scalp. He grins dreamily, lips lubricated with your sweet juices.

"You're a vision," Jabber crawls back up your body with a hypnotized haste. Your hands fall down to his shoulders and eagerly meet his lips in an imperfect kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue. His hand worms between your bodies back to your deprived pussy.

He prods your slick hole with his pointer and middle fingers and slowly wedges them into your gummy soft walls. But your greedy hole swallows them so easy, you buck up for more.

He smiles at your body’s familiarity with him already. Opening up so easily for his digits.

Your mind goes hazy, his nose crunching against yours as he roughly kisses your thoughts away. Soft clicks, the sound of his knuckles meeting your cunt again and again, fill the silent room.

"Pretty lil' cleaner. Just wanted to get finger-fucked by your favorite raider huh?"

You nod dumbly, aimless nails clawing down his back, leaving the skin raw and red much to Jabber’s sick delight.

At this point, his cock was fighting against the flimsy fabric of his pants. So painfully hard as he feels you squirm and mewl beneath him.

“I’m gonna … cum, fuck, Jabs',” You pant, his rapid fingering making your thighs curl up to your torso. He feels you close around his fingers, swallowing your airy moans as you finally get lost in an orgasm. Your thighs tremble as Jabber sandwiches his fingers deep in your cunt, crunching them so they perfectly career against that sweet spot in you.

“Thaaaat’s right baby." He croons, coaxing you back down from your high — making sure he milked the best of your high.

When your orgasm finally begins to dwindle, he breaks the lip lock with a quiet, sticky sound. Extremely proud of the disheveled, post-orgasmic canvas in front of him.

He looks you up and down, a slanted smirk creeping up his cheek.

"Better than what those cleaners could ever give you, yeah?" He spat out the word 'cleaners' like old, shriveled up gum. Picking up your limp hand and connecting his lips to the knuckle. Intertwining his callous fingers with yours.

Your shoulders shake in an airless laugh. Eyes still fluttered shut as you experience the last bits of your high. "It's not a competition."

"If it was, I'd win right?"

"There is no competition. None of them have ever gone down on me," You smile. He leans his cheek serenely against the back of your palm, watching your pretty face quizzically.

"So ... I win." He concludes.

"Sure you do, Jabs'."

Your eyes crack open to his arm reaching over you, sliding open the top drawer of the nightstand and fetching a purple colored condom between his two, painted nails. He bites his lip as he watches intrigue flicker in the reflection of your glossy eyes.

"Still got life in these legs, pretty?" He asks, hand appreciatively stroking your tummy.

You nod, and Jabber begins to fumble with the zipper of his pants. Erection stretching it so far it looked on the verge of bursting open.

He rolls off your body, laying on his back beside you on the mattress while tousling his pants off, condom laying beside him. Letting them collapse onto the worn apartment floors and leaving him in purple, tight boxers.

Your eyes dart almost immediately down to his cock, clearly outlined under the fabric. And fuck was he leaking.

"You get me so hard it’s unbelievable," He says in awe, palming himself lazily. "Got me feeling all woozy ... fuck I ain't gonna last like this, pretty."

You blink at his ... oddly endearing words. Heat bubbling in the pit of your belly as he touches himself at a snail's pace.

You had to admit, he looked stupidly hot like this — Feeling up his throbbing erection and bitching on and on about how much you effect him.

He inches down the elastic waistband of his boxers and lets his cocoa colored tip peak above the fabric, slick with milky pre. Lazily dragging his thumb over the slit and collecting some of his arousal.

"C'mere," He lets go, holding out two pre-coated fingers and floating them to your lips. "Get a sample."

What a freak.

But you open your mouth nonetheless. Your legs squeezing together as he runs his two fingers over your tongue. The salty taste of his pre replenishing your tastebuds. Jabber curses beneath his breath, eyes centered on you even as he pats around the sheets for the forgotten condom.

He snarls and rips open the rapper with a pull of sharp teeth, yanking the rest of his boxers down to free his heavy cock, rolling the thin layer of rubber over it.

"Eager," You tease while he tows you over his lap like an oversized doll, handling you with the care of a poor man moving gold.

"Yeah I'm eager," He eyes that darling body of yours up and down. Towering above him, light hitting your skin perfectly. Shadowing over your cunt that looms above his lap. It's like you were dangling a carrot in front of a donkey. A disheveled, stupidly horny donkey.

"Now sit on this dick and ride the fuck outta me." He warbles.

If only the others could see you now. They're probably sound asleep, assuming you were well nested in your own bed.

Hell, anywhere but in the apartment that a raider so dutifully decorated just to make you a second home.

After angling his length, you deliberately sink yourself down until you’re fully sat. Heavy balls snug against the crevice of your ass as Jabber moans. Head thrown back and locs strewn over his face as he finally feels your cozy walls wrapped around his dick.

"Shiiiiit," he howls beneath you. You move your hips, slowly finding your stability as the uncomfort shifts into a warm arousal.

Experimentally, you raise your ass then ease yourself back down. A whimper gets trapped in your throat as you find a rhythm. Gently rocking yourself back and forth over his lap, his fat, wrapped tip snug against a spot in you that made you not want to pull him out. Ever.

"Y'feel so good," You mewl, grinding him into your sweet spot. Jabber's convinced you have his soul hostage in that moment. Looking so beautiful above him, like a lustful, white feathered angel sapping what she needed to get her fill from a disgusting man like him.

He feebly bucks his hips. Attempting to get you to continue moving.

"Sweet girl if you keep at that, I'm gonna nut. Way too fast." He admits, and you take it with a grain of salt. Raising your hips, then dropping them back down on him, luring a moan from his throat as you slowly begin to ride him.

The bed rocks beneath Jabber as you fuck him. Pretty tits bouncing beneath your top and the sound of your thighs clapping against his own mixing a sick cocktail that made him mad with lust.

"Fuck yeah baby — fuuuuck just like that. Fuck your r—hah-raider," He growls. Clawing at your cushy hips and unintentionally lining the skin deep with marks.

You're mewling, now. Like a bitch in heat, addicted to the way he kept you filled and whined while doing it.

Something makes your fingers drag up to his throat. Wrapping around the warm skin gently at first. His bright eyes snap toward you the moment he feels your thumbs constrict his windpipe. Like he was just waiting for you to do something like this.

His mouth gapes, hands darting up to wrap around yours as he slowly loses the ability to breathe. A fat grin on his face because he wouldn't trade this moment for anything else.

And you keep riding him, his heavy balls tightening inevitably each time you slam back down on him.

Fuck.

His head goes all funny, eyes rolling into the back of his skull as he mouths 'I'm cumming,' unable to force the words out.

You feel his cock throb. Once. Twice, then he fills the condom with his release. Shooting his hot seed into the rubber with his eyes sealed. You watch him ride out his orgasm, loosening your tight grip on his windpipe.

He slowly gains his bearings, chest rising up and down as he lays there. Used. The best he'd ever felt.

Then he realizes, lifting his chin. You're still riding him.

His eyes focus back on your face. Cute little face. So content with using his dick.

It hurt, but fuck did it hurt so good. He bites his lip as he embraces the overstimulation, bracing a hand on the upper fat of your thigh.

"F .... uck. Baby. Baby y're ... ruthless," He slurs. You let out an airy giggle, in pursuit of your own orgasm as you grind his spent cock. Your hips roll faster as you fall over the edge of your peak, making any coherent thought blip from Jabber's skull. As your pussy slowly milks him for what he's worth.

You keep him sheathed as you collapse onto his chest. Immediately, his arms crowd over your shoulders and hold you tight to his body.

You listen to his heart beat that slams against his rib cage as you slowly descend your high. Nuzzling your cheek against his warm, sticky skin. The lean muscles beneath his skin unmistakeable as you rest against them.

The smell of sex plugged the apartment to it's brim, leaving the both of you floating in the thick afterglow. You have half a mind to spend the night, on his body. Even with the sharp jut of Jabber's hip bones poking uncomfortably into your skin.

Jabber's staring at you again. Heart set ablaze with a feeling so heavy he doesn't know how to deal with the weight. So he settles for tracing tiny circles over your back. Listening to your breaths with a sleepy smile on his face.

"I think they can live with ya being missin' ... just one night." He reads your mind. You lift your head, perching your chin on his collarbone.

"Y'know I can't, Jabs'."

He pouts childishly. He's okay with you being a cleaner — hell, he's into it — but he'd kill a few people for one, quiet night with you snuggled up with him. A night like this.

Your lips mold against his cheek, "But I guess I could spare a few more hours in here ..."

Jabber cracks a smile. If that's all the time he could scavenge, he'll take it.

"M'kay." He purrs, carefully lifting your hips up and off him. Snickering when you cringe at the emptiness.

"Now, about those piercings..."

A/n: this took me eons to write 💔 but I hope u enjoyed :3

…p.s. some art I did of my lightskin babyboy

(art acc: yulena._ on tiktok) #shamelessplug

[starglitterz]

enjin x fem!reader ; nsft ; enjin is soo huge it makes my brain hurt

“anyone ever told you you're really big, enjin?” your fingers skim over his broad shoulders as you slide into the seat next to him, nails leaving a thin crease in the fabric of his jacket.

“in the head, maybe.” riyo snickers, downing another drink and slamming the glass back onto the table with a delighted laugh. 

“hey! don't say that.” zanka scolds her, enjin's number one fan coming to the rescue again. “he is very big, probably because of all the training he does.”

a deep chuckle rumbles in enjin's throat, his gaze roving over you in a way that would have sent most coworkers running straight to hr. “well, there you have it, doll. i'm made of muscle according to zanka over here.” 

“yeah? you must be so strong…” it's either the alcohol in your veins or the fact that the two of you have been dancing around each other for far too long that gives you the courage to squeeze his bicep. it's so huge, god, you want him to put you in a headlock. or a mating press. any fucking position where he can pin you into the mattress and you can be reminded of how much bigger than you he is, how much more powerful, how he can manhandle you like a ragdoll if he so desired. “bet you could pick me up like nothing.”

enjin's eyes darken. a fleeting expression of raw hunger passes over his features so quickly that you can't be sure if you imagined it. his finger traces the rim of his glass, and he chooses his next words very carefully. “sure could.” 

when he looks up at you you're resting your chin on your hands, elbows propped up on the table with a mischievous smile curving your lips. “really? prove it.”

and that's how you and enjin end up tangled in your bed.

“enjin, p-please, i can't-” you hiccup through your tears, trying unsuccessfully to squirm out of his grip. 

“don't run from me, doll.” his deep voice is stern as he holds you in place with one large hand at your hip, branding you as his through touch alone. he's so strong it makes your pussy ache – it's only natural for you to get even weaker in the face of his effortless strength, too busy going dumb over it to think about arguing.

enjin's rarely strict with you and so the sharp edge to his tone lights a fire under your skin, a zap of heat that goes straight to your clit. you melt under him, so soft and pliable and easy the second he uses that damn voice with you. it reminds you that he's leader of team akuta for a reason, and his casual dominance makes your head spin.

a teasing laugh slips past enjin's lips as he feels you stop fighting him, and he reaches down to brush a strand of hair out of your face. “you're doing so well for me, angel, you can give me one more.” 

one more…? how many has it been already? “no, no, no…” you whine, a fresh wave of tears forming in your eyes. you've cum so many times you're not even sure you know your own name anymore, or if you know anything at all aside from the feeling of enjin's hands, tongue, and dick rewriting every inch of your skin. your body's a livewire, buzzing with electricity and pleasure all over and you think you're going to burst into an explosion of sparks if he keeps going like this. “t-too much…” 

“almost there, pretty, just a little more…” he groans, bullying his cock even deeper until it presses up against parts of you that no one’s ever touched before, making a constellation of stars burst behind your eyes as he strokes your clit with one idiotically long finger. 

“enjin, please-!” you doubt you’d recognise yourself if you saw your own reflection right now; matted hair, sweaty skin marked with bruises and bite marks, legs folded up past your head – it’d be embarrassing if you had any presence of mind left to even feel anything except the white-hot pleasure trailing up your spine and bubbling in your core. “oh, fuck, enjin!”

“take it all, doll, fuck-!” enjin’s hips stutter against yours, rhythm turning erratic as he finishes inside you at the same time you climax, both of you reaching your peaks in each other’s arms, intertwined closer than what should be physically possible. 

as you’re panting and coming down from your high, enjin pulls out and snuggles up next to you, nuzzling into your neck and pressing kisses along your skin, “alright, pretty?”

“yeah…” you murmur, a little dazed at first before you gather your bearings and smirk, “guess not every part of you is as big as you make it seem.”

enjin’s eyes narrow. “that so? i remember someone saying it was ‘too big’ when i first put it in.” he mocks your whiny tone and you shove him playfully, making him pull an exaggerated wince and clutch his shoulder like you’ve mortally wounded him.

“i don’t know…” your fingers trail up his arm again, much like it did hours ago in that seedy bar, “maybe you’ll have to prove it a couple more times for me to be sure.” 

enjin just laughs and pulls you into his arms, preparing to carry you both to the bathroom. “i’ll hold you to that, doll.”

“yeah, i sure hope you’ll hold me down to something.”

based on enjin’s reaction it’s safe to say that you aren’t going to be walking for the foreseeable future.

i'm genuinely just going to burst into tears if this doesn't show up in tags

[oneclickangel]

reblog if you're corny and insufferable

[happyllamaglama]

[spirit-tree-bois]

Drunk Idiots - Enjin/Gris

Just two drunkish Idiots and their boyfriend

Word Count: 641

CW: Suggestive, non gendered reader, poly relationship, established relationship

It was one of those rare occasions where the cleaners had the night off, allowing themselves to enjoy the night without a second thought. The small group came to the decision of a couple drinks outside headquarters for once. Local bar a town over being the haven for the evening. 

Gris and Semiu sat together at the bar. Both leisurely chatting away, nursing on their drink of choice.Enjin leaned against one of the far walls, a cigarette hanging from his lips. His golden eyes hinting at his intoxication, not that you were any better. Eyes unfocused, head heavy, slurred speech passing your lips. 

You were trying to make a move on the blonde, both arms caging him against the wall. Yet any time his eyes found yours you just giggled. Head ducking down, cute flush on your cheeks. It was an adorable attempt really, it being the third time now.

“Whatcha want, pretty?” 

His voice was low, only audible for your drunken ears. You flicker your eyes to his, looking away with a shy smile. Arms drop to your sides as you press your face into his chest. 

“Take ya home with me~” 

Enjin rolled his eyes at your words, hand finding your hip. His fingers sneak their way under your shirt, just grazing your delicate skin. You gasp at the sudden contact. 

“I don't know, Doll. My boyfriend might not like that.” 

You whine. Hands now fisting the front of his shirt. With his other hand he gently grabs your chin making you look up. 

“Shh none of that.” 

“It's not faiiiiir…” 

He was quick to remove the unlit cigarette from his mouth, tucking it behind his ear for later. His lips then found yours, taking control instantly. Any thought you had went out the window. Your arms wrap around his shoulders, bringing him impossibly closer. That's when he flipped the two of you around. Having you now flush against the wall. 

The two of you parted, panting for breath. 

“Thinkin my boyfriend won't mind.” 

The blonde groaned, head shaking. Oh he wanted to get you home, spread you out so pretty for him. Hear you beg for him. 

Gris at the bar though was eyeing the two of you up. Shamelessly enjoying the way alcohol had you two clinging to one another. His own perverted ideas running through his head. How he planned to make sure your ‘boyfriend’ didn't feel left out.

“Yo Gris, take them home before they start stripping on the floor.” 

Semiu pulled the man from his thoughts, hand clapping down on his shoulder. He gave the woman a wave before knocking back the rest of his beer. 

“Oi, Enjin!” 

The blonde snapped his head back, looking at the other man. He gave a simple gesture, two fingers curling in the ‘come hither’ motion. That's when you were pulled away from the wall, and ushered outside into the jeep. Now sat in Enjin's lap occupying the  passenger seat. 

Gris took care of the bill inside. Making sure nothing of importance was left behind. Finally, he sat in the driver's seat, looking over at the sight. His two favorite people, drunk and touchy. 

This was going to be a long drive back. Especially when you keep giggling, Enjin whispering in your ear teasingly. Your hands making their way over to Gris's open lap. A large hand grabs yours, stopping you from acting further.

“Don't worry, sweetheart. I'll play with you both when we get back. Just try to keep your hands to yourself for me, yeah?” 

There wasn't any sleeping to be done this evening after the three of you got back. And to add fuel to the fire, each one of you had unmistakable marks along your exposed skin the next morning, too. 

Two hot boyfriends and some alcohol always make for a fun evening.  

[ackleskisser-mp4]

A Bird Out of Gotham

Pairing: Conner Kent x batsis!reader

Summary: You were captured by one of Gotham’s biggest villains, so Batman does something unlikely and turns to someone he never thought he would ask for help. (wc: 6.7K)

Tags/warnings: All characters are +18, although it isn’t specified. Reader referred to as Osprey. Descriptions of violence. female!reader. Signs of Manipulation. Intoxication by Scarecrow’s gas. Fear toxin/hallucinations. Childhood crush. Friends to lovers. Drugging. Temporary paralysis. Physical violence. Angst. Loads of angst. Very fluffy too. So much fluff. Oh the fluff!! Hurt/comfort. No proof read. Bruce Wayne needs therapy.

“Osprey, confirm your position.“

Bruce’s voice cut through the steady hum of the comms, low and gravelly. You were on patrol tonight, stationed high above the concrete labyrinth of the city. Bruce was only checking up on you—he always kept a tight leash whenever you were out on a solo run.

“Osprey to Batman. Confirming position on 3B, North Gotham. Over,” you responded, a small smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.

The sleek cowl over your head did its job well, breaking up the silhouette of your shoulders and making you look sharper, taller, more menacing than you actually were. The suit was a matte midnight-black, broken up only by sharp, stark white accents across the chest and gauntlets—designed to melt into the heavy shadows of the city just like your father and brothers did.

Sector 3B was a jagged, gothic high-rise looming right over the harbor, where a whisper of street intel suggested a major drop was going down tonight. Bruce had been skeptical about the validity of the tip, which is exactly why he’d sent you to scope it out. But you weren't entirely alone. You knew Nightwing was lurking a few rooftops over, keeping a watchful eye just in case.

Of course he was. Your older brothers always hovered, fiercely protective no matter how much you fought them on it. And tonight, you didn't mind the backup quite as much; Gotham had been pulling some serious weirdos out of the woodwork lately, and you still didn't know exactly who you were hunting.

When you were younger, you had worn the red and yellow, earning your stripes as Robin just like the boys before you. You and Tim used to trade off the mantle, letting him handle the heavy lifting with the Teen Titans while you ran the rooftops of Gotham at Batman's side.

But things change. Now Damian was Robin. Tim had rebranded as Red Robin—whatever the hell that was supposed to mean—and you had chosen Osprey. Jason had tried to ruin the moment by smugly pointing out that real-world ospreys were diurnal birds that only hunted in the daylight, and you had simply told him to fuck off. That had been the end of that discussion.

Bruce trusted you. Of course he did; you had earned your place in this war. But there was always a catch. To the Dark Knight, you were still his little girl.

And you would never, ever stop being his little girl.

A sudden flicker of movement down by the pier snapped you out of your thoughts. You adjusted the lenses of your cowl, zooming in on a rusted cargo ship docked at the edge of the harbor.

Bingo.

Men in heavy coats were quietly unloading unmarked crates from the hull, moving with the frantic, quiet rush of people who knew they were running out of time. At the center of the operation stood a man holding a sleek, pointed umbrella, barking quiet orders into the freezing night air.

Oswald Cobblepot. The Penguin.

A smirk crept onto your face as you crouched low on the ledge, the wind whipping against your cape. The irony wasn't lost on you. Penguin’s whole brand was built on being a flightless bird obsessed with the sea. And Bruce had sent an Osprey—a literal sea hawk whose entire biological purpose was to dive from the sky and tear fish out of the water. Jason would probably have a field day with the metaphor if he were here.

"Batman, I've got eyes on the prize," you whispered into the comms, your voice dropping into its official field tone. "The Penguin’s crew is at Pier 4. They're unloading heavy crates. Looks like tech, not drugs."

There was a brief, agonizing pause on the other end line. You could almost hear the gears turning in Bruce’s head back at the Batcave.

"Copy that, Osprey," Bruce’s voice crackled back. "Observe only. Do not engage until Nightwing is in position."

Right on cue, a familiar, cheerful voice chimed into the frequency. "Too late, B. I'm already on the adjacent rooftop. Osprey, you take the crane, I'll sweep the perimeter?" Dick's tone was light, but you could hear the underlying readiness in it. He was giving you the high ground. He was letting you take the lead.

You looked down at the thugs below, your fingers twitching near your utility belt. You could wait for Dick to make the first move, or you could show your big brother exactly how a real bird of prey hunts.

“I’m going for the goons. Keep an eye on the Penguin,” you instructed surely, your voice steady and authoritative despite the adrenaline starting to pump through your veins.

Before the words had even fully left your mouth, you unclipped your grapple gun. With a swift pull of the trigger, the line shot out, anchoring perfectly to the steel framework of a towering shipping crane. You stepped off the ledge, plunging into the freezing harbor air.

You engaged your cape, catching the sharp updraft from the water and gliding silently into the dark maze of metal containers where the drop was going down.

"Copy that, Osprey. Happy hunting," Dick’s voice crackled smoothly in your ear. There was nothing but pure pride in his tone. He didn't question your play; he trusted your instincts entirely. "I've got Cobblepot's exit blocked. Knock 'em dead."

"Focus, both of you," Bruce’s deep rumble cut through the comms, though he didn't tell you to pull back. He knew better than to interrupt when his kids were working in perfect sync.

You dropped from the sky like a ghost, landing soundlessly on top of a rusted blue container directly above two of Cobblepot’s thugs. They were struggling to haul a heavy wooden crate, breath misting in the cold air, completely oblivious to the predator perched right above their heads.

From this angle, you could see the packing slip on the crate. It wasn't standard black-market artillery. It bore a high-tech corporate logo—experimental Wayne Enterprises tech that had gone missing from a transport truck last week. No wonder Penguin was down here personally supervising.

You pulled two customized batarangs from your utility belt, the matte white details on your gauntlets catching the faint glow of the harbor lights. Moving with practiced, lightning-fast precision, you slipped from the containers, silently neutralizing the perimeter guards one by one. You kept your movements tight, staying entirely out of the Penguin’s line of sight. There was no need to engage him directly; your job was to secure the asset.

“Osprey, keep your comms open, please,” Bruce’s voice sounded in your ear, the low rumble carrying that familiar, heavy weight. You just hummed in agreement, not wanting to break your focus. You knew he worried. Of course he did! He always did.

“She’s doing fine, B! Don’t worry. I’ve got my eyes on her,” Nightwing defended you, his tone a little too cheerful for your liking. You didn’t respond, keeping your eyes moving, scanning the blind spots between the towering shipping crates.

“I know. I just... have a feeling,” Bruce murmured.

Dick let out a soft chuckle through the frequency. Bruce always got this way when it came to you. “Since when do we operate on feelings, Brucie?” he teased.

The only response your father let out was a frustrated, heavy sigh. Under any other circumstance, you would have smiled at their bickering. It was standard Batfamily radio chatter. But you couldn't laugh. You needed to focus. You were focused.

Then, your breath hitched.

A sudden, violent wave of goosebumps broke out across your skin. The hairs on the back of your neck stood up. Bruce was right. Something was wrong.

Before your brain could even process the threat, a massive shadow loomed behind you. A thick, heavy forearm clamped around your neck, and a chemical-soaked rag was slammed brutally over your mouth and nose. You gasped in surprise, instantly inhaling the sharp, sweet, toxic fumes. A muffled scream caught in your throat.

Didn’t Dick have eyes on you?!

Your limbs immediately went heavy, turning to lead. “Batman, I lost her! Shit—” Dick’s voice crackled faintly in your ear, the playful cheer instantly replaced by sheer, unadulterated panic.

You tried to fight. You tried to reach for your utility belt, to throw an elbow, to use the leverage to flip your attacker—to do anything you had spent years training to do. You had survived death-defying drops, lethal combat, and the worst Gotham had to offer. You never got nervous. You never froze. But your muscles refused to obey. It had only taken a single second. Just one second of slipped focus, and your body was entirely failing you.

The world tilted violently. The harbor lights smeared into streaks of sickening yellow and white against the dark sky.

Bruce was screaming your name now, a rare, terrifying sound of absolute dread tearing through his usual stoic composure. Not your code name, but your name.

But his voice sounded like it was underwater, fading rapidly into the distance. Your eyelids fluttered closed, the heavy blackness of the night rushing in to swallow you whole.

And then, you couldn't hear anything at all.

“She’s doing fine, B! Don’t worry, I’ve got my eyes on her.”

“I know, I just… have a feeling.”

“Since when do we operate on feelings, Brucie?”

“Batman, I lost her! Shit—“

Your head overplayed the last conversation you heard. Your eyes fluttering open slowly, your head hanging to the front. You were tied up on a chair. Your utility belt gone. You still had your cowl intact. Which was both bad and good news. The good one was that whoever had you didn’t mind your secret identity. The bad one was that if they didn’t want to know your real name or what your face looked like… it was probably one of Gotham’s favorite weirdos.

You look around quickly, your breath is heavy. Your comms is gone. You want to guess.

Scarecrow. It most likely was Scarecrow.

You try to test the ropes around your wrists. Tight. Professional. No wiggle room.

The room around you is damp and freezing, smelling heavily of rust, stagnant harbor water, and the sickly-sweet scent of decaying burlap. You are likely still somewhere near the docks, tucked away in one of the abandoned warehouses where the GCPD never bothers to patrol.

Footsteps echo from the darkness ahead. Slow. Rhythmic. Dragging.

"Ah... the fledgling has awakened," a raspy, distorted voice speaks from the gloom.

A figure steps into the pale light of a single, flickering bulb hanging from the ceiling. The tattered, straw-stuffed mask of the Scarecrow glares down at you, the empty eyeholes practically glowing with a sadistic curiosity.

"I must admit, Osprey, I was quite curious when Gotham's great Dark Knight brought a new bird into his cage," Crane says, tilting his head as he approaches your chair. He raises a gloved hand, the rusted syringes tipped on his fingers clicking together like claws. "Tell me... does the little bird fear the fall? Or does she fear the shadow of the Bat?"

You swallow hard, your throat feeling like sandpaper. The toxin is making it hard to think straight, the faces of Bruce and Dick flashing behind your eyelids, their frantic voices still echoing in your mind.

You are a Bat. You don't break.

But you are human. As you remind yourself, some goon hitting you right on your belly with a breathtaking punch. You see Scarecrow smile, while everything is defusing. You’re confused. Somewhere out there Bruce is desperately looking for you, being self deprecating and blaming Nightwing for not keeping the leash on you tight enough.

The punch to your stomach strips the remaining oxygen from your lungs, leaving you gasping, your head dropping as your vision fractures into sharp, vibrating pieces. The physical pain is sharp, but the creeping fog of the toxin is worse.

Your thoughts are a chaotic blur. You can practically hear the fallout happening in real-time across Gotham. Bruce, stone-faced but burning with a quiet, lethal rage, tearing through the harbor. Dick, eating himself alive with guilt because he took his eyes off you for one single, fatal second. They’re tearing the city apart looking for you, but right now, you are utterly on your own.

“Let’s explore this little bird’s worst nightmares, shall we?” Crane’s voice distorts, warping into a deep, echoing hiss as he steps closer.

He presses the trigger. A thick, hissing cloud of pale straw-colored gas erupts from the canisters, enveloping your face.

You try to hold your breath, but your bruised ribs betray you, forcing you to take a sharp, ragged gasp. The sweet, metallic taste of the fear toxin floods your system, and the warehouse instantly begins to dissolve.

The concrete floor under your chair liquefies into a pitch-black abyss. The ropes binding your wrists tighten, turning into heavy, freezing iron chains that drag you downward. The single flickering lightbulb above explodes into a swarm of frantic, screeching bats—but they aren't here to save you. Their eyes are glowing, malicious crimson slits, and they begin to swarm you, tearing at your suit, blocking out the light.

Through the roaring sound of thousands of wings, the voices return. But they aren't the comforting, protective voices of your family anymore.

"You weren't ready," Bruce’s voice echoes from the darkness, cold and deeply disappointed. "I shouldn't have trusted you."

"It's my fault," Dick’s voice whispers right into your ear, sounding broken and bleeding. "I let you drown."

The hallucination is heavy, pressing down on your chest until you can barely breathe. The toxin is forcing your mind into its darkest, most vulnerable corners, tearing down every ounce of training you have.

The darkness stretches infinitely, heavy and suffocating. You are completely blind, stripped of the visual tactical edge you’ve spent years training to rely on. All you have are your other senses—and right now, they are entirely turned against you by Jonathan Crane’s twisted chemistry.

Your skin crawls. The atmosphere feels thick, smelling heavily of copper, old grease, and that sickening, cheap white face paint.

“Stupid, stupid little bird.”

The voice slices through the void, high-pitched, manic, and dripping with a sadistic glee that makes your stomach bottom out. The Joker. The one rogue who truly terrified you. The one rogue Bruce kept you as far away from as humanly possible. You can’t see him, but you can hear the clicking of his shoes on the concrete, circling your chair, closer and closer until you swear you can feel his hot, rancid breath against the edge of your cowl.

Your body betrays you. A violent, uncontrollable shiver wracks your frame. The clown's diabolical, wheezing laugh echoes from every direction, bouncing off the walls of your own skull. You are trapped in pitch blackness with a monster.

But then, the laughter starts to warp. It stretches out, deepening, turning into a strange, roaring distortion.

And against the absolute dark of your blindness, a sharp, sudden flicker of light cuts through.

A... what?

It’s an orange-gold flash. Small at first, like a match striking in the distance, but it rapidly grows, dancing against the dark. It’s a flame. It expands into a wall of bright, crackling fire that tears directly through the illusion of the dark warehouse.

The heat hits your skin—not the cold, clammy sweat of the fear toxin, but actual, blistering heat. The sickly sweet smell of the gas is suddenly choked out by the heavy, suffocating scent of burning wood and melting steel.

Through the roaring of the flames, the clown's laughter turns into a harsh, metallic hacking sound. The darkness is burning away, but it’s not Bruce or Dick breaking through the door. The warehouse around you is genuinely on fire. Someone is tearing the place apart.

The orange glow of the fire bleeds into the dark, melting the Joker's manic face into ash. The blistering heat is real, but your mind is slipping back down into the heavy, suffocating weight of the sedative. Your head lolls back against the chair, the smoke stinging your eyes as they flutter one last time.

Through the roar of the collapsing warehouse, the voice cuts through again. It doesn’t use Osprey. It doesn't use Robin. It screams your actual name, the raw panic in it vibrating right through your bones. But your brain, thoroughly poisoned by Crane's toxin, can't map the sound to a face. It’s a ghost of a voice.

And then, a silhouette breaks through the wall of smoke and flame.

You expect the heavy, broad shape of Batman. You expect the sleek, agile form of Nightwing. You expect the harsh, metallic red helmet of Jason. But the figure kneeling in front of your chair doesn't fit any of them. The image burns into your fading vision—a face you know, deep down in a place the fear gas couldn't touch, but your paralyzed tongue can't find the words to speak it.

They exist. They're real. They're here.

A pair of hands, trembling but firm, cups your face, lifting your head up. You feel the sudden, sharp release of pressure around your wrists as the ropes are sliced away, but you’re already too far gone to slide off the chair. Strong arms wrap around you, lifting you entirely off the ground and pulling you tight against a chest that is rising and falling in frantic, terrified gasps.

The heavy scent of smoke and the faint, comforting trace of a familiar leather jacket is the last thing you register before the world goes completely black.

When you finally wake up, the roaring of the fire is gone. You’re resting in a comfortable bed that makes you straighten in a second. The cozy bedroom looks nothing like your home, full of posters of bands you take a second to recognize. It’s nightfall. You try to reach for your comms, your utility belt. Anything. You’re not wearing your suit anymore, but a loose t-shirt and some sweatpants you’re sure gonna fall down if you get up. You pull the string, making a tight knot before you get up and an older woman rushes to you.

“Sweetheart! Be careful, you’ve been asleep for two days!” she leaves a tray with what looks like soup right on top of the nightstand, the spoon clattering as she takes your arm to help you up. You blink disoriented.

The mooing of a cow lets you know you no longer are in Gotham.

Your head is throbbing, your heart beating too loud in your chest and an explosion that you didn’t know that happened was still ringing in your ears. You look around, in a swift movement you’re away. You could have easily held her in a headlock, but she doesn’t look that threatening. Even so, your guard is never down enough. You were a vigilante!

“Where am I?” you demand, your voice doesn’t even shake at your question. She smiles warmly.

“This is Smallville, darling,” her hard Kansas accent surprises you enough. You furrow your eyebrows.

“What am I doing here?”

Her smile doesn’t faint. “Conner thought it was best to bring you here. Said you were in trouble or s’mthin.”

You scan your brain; Conner, Conner, Conner… Conner! Right on time he appears with that smug smile, the piercing on his left eyebrow and those eyes that screamed how he’s been through trauma, but was never gonna admit it out loud. You’re glad he’s here, yet confused to why you are here with him.

You blink slowly, staring at him.

“How you feeling, Doll?” he asked in a soft tone, grabbing your hand to hold you for a second.

The puzzle pieces in your head finally click together, the lingering fog of Jonathan Crane’s fear toxin instantly evaporating at the sight of him.

Conner.

Tim’s best friend, the clone, the boy who wasn't supposed to exist but somehow became one of the most real things in your life. The mysterious face in the fire, the one who had screamed your actual name through the smoke while your brothers were still frantic on the comms—it had been him. He had ripped you out of that burning warehouse before the Batfamily even breached the perimeter.

“Conner,” you breathe out, your voice a little rougher than you intend. You don’t pull your hand away from his grip. Instead, your fingers tighten around his, grounding yourself against the solid, impossible warmth of a half-Kryptonian.

His mom—Martha Kent, your brain finally supplies the name as you look at the gentle, worried woman—looks between the two of you with a knowing, soft expression. She quietly slips out of the bedroom, closing the door behind her to give you both some space, leaving the steaming bowl of soup behind.

You let out a breath you feel like you’ve been holding for two days, looking down at the oversized T-shirt you're wearing, which you now realize definitely belongs to him.

“You took me out of Gotham,” you say, your tactical brain immediately calculating the absolute chaos currently happening across the state line. You stare up into those blue eyes of his. “Conner, Bruce is going to lose his mind. Dick thinks I’m dead or worse, and Jason probably blew up half the harbor looking for Crane. Why did you bring me to Kansas?”

Conner’s smug smile fades just a fraction, replaced by something much softer, much more vulnerable. He rubs his thumb over the back of your knuckles, his piercing catching the faint light from the window.

“He knows you’re here,” he says quietly, his voice dropping into that serious tone he rarely uses unless it really matters. “Bruce contacted Clark and it got to me. We had a better chance at finding you on time than them. By the time I smashed through the roof, Crane had you completely under. You were screaming, Doll. You were looking right at me and seeing monsters.”

He steps closer, closing the distance between you, his eyes scanning your face to make sure you're actually okay. His hand goes to your chin to hold it back and your breath hitches. He chuckles as he noticed, checking your face for any injuries. “Until we know why Scarecrow was targeting you, you’re staying here with Ma, Pa and me.”

You hiss. “I was targeted?” you asked with furrowed eyebrows and he carefully lifts your shirt, not much, just enough to check on your bruised ribs.

“Do they hurt?” you shrug. Bruised ribs were nothing compared to how hurt you ended on training. Bruce never went easy. “We don’t know why you of all the bats. Maybe the bad guys figured you’re Batman’s favorite.” he smiled and you nod.

Your face warms a little at his comment, the sudden rush of heat having absolutely nothing to do with the fear toxin or Ma Kent's hot soup.

Batman’s favorite. You want to roll your eyes and tell him to shut up, but with his hand still gently cupping your chin and his thumb brushing the edge of your jaw, the words catch in your throat.

When you were a teenager, Conner Kent had been the center of your universe. Back when you and Tim were trading off the Robin cape, you used to actively look for excuses to look over Tim’s shoulder at Titan's monitors just to catch a glimpse of the boy in the black leather jacket and the tactile t-shirt. You had the biggest, most agonizing crush on him for years. He was everything a Gotham-bred kid shouldn't be: loud, bright, incredibly stubborn, and completely unbothered by the shadows.

And right now, standing in his childhood bedroom wearing a t-shirt that completely swallows your frame, those old feelings are roaring back to life with a vengeance.

"I'm nobody's favorite," you finally manage to mutter, though your voice lacks its usual sharp, vigilante bite. You reach down, gently but firmly patting his hand away from your shirt before he can keep inspecting your ribs. "And I don't need to be coddled, Kent. I've handled worse than Crane."

"Yeah, I know you have," Conner says smoothly, not missing a beat. He drops his hand from your chin, but he doesn't step back out of your personal space. That smug, devastating smile slowly creeps back onto his face, his eyebrow piercing glinting in the dim light. "But you're missing the point, Doll. I wanted you here."

Your heart does a stupid, irregular thud against your ribs.

"Tim is already losing his mind trying to run data diagnostics from the Titans Tower to figure out how Crane bypassed the harbor's security grid," Conner continues, leaning back against the wooden bedpost and crossing his arms over his chest. "And Dick's been calling my phone every twenty minutes to check if you've opened your eyes yet. I told them I'd keep you safe. I intend to keep that promise."

He looks you up and down, his blue eyes softening as they linger on the oversized shirt you're wearing. "Now, are you going to sit down and eat Ma's soup like a good guest, or do I have to use the super-strength to make you rest?"

Your heart does that stupid, betraying thud again—louder this time, enough that you're painfully aware of his super-hearing. You narrow your eyes at him, trying to channel every ounce of Batman’s stoic intimidation, but wearing his faded band tee with string-tied sweatpants completely ruins the effect.

"You wouldn't dare," you say, taking a step toward him.

"Try me, Osprey," Conner smirks, tilting his head. "I've faced down Darkseid's forces, but making a stubborn Bat sit down and take care of herself might be my toughest mission yet."

"I am resting," you insist, though your voice softens as you look at him. The teasing banter feels so familiar, but the air between you suddenly feels charged, heavy with a tension that definitely wasn't there when you were teenagers running around behind Tim's back.

Conner steps in close again, effortlessly closing the gap between you. The smugness melts off his face, replaced by that quiet, genuine intensity that always used to make your throat go dry. Without asking, he reaches out, his large, warm hand gently cupping the side of your neck, his thumb tracing the sharp line of your jawline.

Your breath hitches loud enough that there’s no hiding it this time.

"You scared the hell out of me," he murmurs, his blue eyes searching yours, completely dropped of all bravado. "When Bruce said comms went dark... I didn't think, Doll. I just flew. I don't care why Crane was targeting you, or what kind of chaos your brothers are causing back in Gotham right now. All I cared about was getting you out of that fire."

"Conner..." your voice is barely a whisper. You reach up, your fingers wrapping around his wrist. You tell yourself it's to push him away, to keep your tactical wall up, but your hands betray you, resting against the steady, thrumming pulse in his arm instead. "I'm okay. I'm tough. You know that."

"I know you're tough," he soft-smiles, leaning down just an inch closer. His thumb lightly brushes over your lower lip. "You're a Bat. You're terrifying when you want to be. But you don't have to be invincible around me."

The room falls dead silent, save for the faint hum of the crickets outside in the Kansas night and the rapid, pounding rhythm of your own heart.

He notices it, of course. A low, wicked smirk tugs at the corner of his lips as his eyes flick down to your mouth, then back up to yours.

"Your heart's beating pretty fast, Osprey," he teases softly, his voice dropping into a low rumble that sends a shiver straight down your spine. "Is that still the fear toxin... or is that me?"

"Shut up, Kent," you breathe out, but you don't pull back. Instead, you tighten your grip on his wrist, pulling him down that last little bit of distance until his forehead rests against yours.

His skin is warm, radiating that steady, impossible heat. Conner lets out a soft, low breath, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheekbone like you’re something fragile—something he’s terrified of breaking, despite knowing you could tear through a room of Gotham goons without breaking a sweat.

"I mean it," he whispers, his eyes searching yours in the dim light of the bedroom. "I’ve seen you take down guys twice your size. I’ve seen you stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Bruce and not back down an inch. But seeing you in that warehouse... shivering, screaming at ghosts while the fire caught your cape..."

His jaw tightens, a flash of pure, unadulterated pain cracking through his usual cocky facade. His grip on your jaw firming just a fraction.

"I hated it," he admits, his voice dropping into a rough, jagged edge. "I hated that I wasn't there five seconds sooner. I hated that I couldn't punch whatever was inside your head out of it."

The angst in his tone hits you right in the chest, sharp and heavy. You reach up with your free hand, resting your palm flat against his chest, right over his heart. It beats with a slow, powerful, steady thud— a rhythm so drastically different from the frantic, dark chaos of Gotham.

"Conner," you say softly, tilting your head up so he’s forced to look at you. "Look at me."

He blinks, his blue eyes locking onto yours.

"I’m here," you tell him, your thumb running over the soft fabric of the shirt— his shirt— covering your chest. "Crane didn't win. The gas is gone. I'm sitting in Smallville, wearing a t-shirt three sizes too big, arguing with a boy who used to drive me crazy when I was fifteen."

A tiny, reluctant laugh breaks through his lips, the tension in his shoulders dropping just a fraction. "Used to?"

"Okay, still do," you admit with a faint, tired smile. "A little bit."

Conner leans into your touch, his hand sliding down from your cheek to cup the back of your neck, his fingers tangling into your dark hair. The warmth of his hand spreads down your spine, turning your knees to water. He shifts his weight, carefully taking your waist with his other hand and lifting you just enough to sit you back down on the edge of the mattress, completely ignoring your mild grunt of protest.

"You're supposed to be resting, remember?" he murmurs, dropping to one knee right between your legs so he’s looking up at you. It’s such an uncharacteristically gentle position for Superboy— the guy who punches through alien metal— to be kneeling on the hardwood floor of his childhood bedroom just to be close to you.

"You're insufferable," you mutter, but your hands find their way into his dark hair, your fingers resting near the crop of his faded undercut.

"Yeah, but I'm your insufferable clone," he smirks, though the softness in his eyes completely undoes the tease. He rests his forehead against your knee for a second, inhaling deeply, before looking back up at you. "Tim called three times while you were out. Bruce called Clark twice. I told them all to go to hell until you woke up."

Your heart does another stupid, irregular flutter. "You yelled at Batman for me?"

"I'd punch the moon out of the sky for you, Doll," he says simply, no hesitation, no swagger, ”just pure, dangerous honesty. "A phone call to Bruce Wayne is nothing."

Before you can digest the weight of those words, the nightstand suddenly lights up, vibrating loudly against the wood and buzzing with a frantic, metallic ringtone that could only belong to a modified Bat-comm link.

Conner’s eyes flick to the phone, his jaw setting into a stubborn line, but he doesn't move an inch away from you. His hands stay resting on your thighs, anchoring you to him.

"Do we answer it?" you ask softly, your fingers still tangled in his hair, the warm fluff of the moment suddenly wrapping around the cold dread of reality calling you back to Gotham.

Conner looks up at you, his thumb gently caressing your knee. "Only if you want to. Otherwise... we can let Gotham wait until morning."

You don’t dare to look away from him, your eyes locked on him, in his face. First those piercing blue eyes and then down to his nose, his lips… those lips you really wanted to kiss, while he toyed with the snakebite piercing he had on the left side of his mouth. You can’t even think about answering Bruce. He knows you’re okay, thanks to the guy standing in front of you; you are. His eyes go down to your lips as well, his lashes brushing his cheek slightly, and he leans up, finally taking your mouth slowly, gently. He’s got no rush right now. You’re okay, you’re safe. Right between his arms.

His hand travels behind you to grip your waist and bring you closer to him, his lips parting slightly, and you can feel the wet velvet slipping through.

The taste of him is warm and grounding, entirely washing away the lingering metallic aftertaste of Crane’s gas. The sudden warmth of his body pressed flush against yours sends a jolt straight down your spine.

For someone built out of steel and raw power, Conner touches you like you’re made of spun glass. His lips move over yours with a slow, agonizing patience, completely unhurried, as if he’s spent years waiting for this exact moment and intends to savor every second of it. His hand at your waist is firm and possessive, pulling you in until there’s no air left between you, his thumb pressing gently into the small of your back.

You melt into him, your fingers tangling into the soft hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him deeper into the kiss. You part your lips in response, a quiet gasp escaping you as his tongue slides past yours, slick and hot, deepening the rhythm until your mind goes entirely blank.

There are no vigilantes here. No Gotham shadows, no smoke, no raging Batfamily, no expectations. Just the quiet rustle of the Kansas wind outside the window and the undeniable, breathtaking heat of Superboy holding you like you're the only thing keeping him anchored to the earth.

When he finally pulls back just an inch, both of your breaths are coming in short, ragged hitches. His forehead rests against yours, his eyes still dark and heavy as he stares down at you, his thumb tracing slow, rhythmic circles on your hip.

"You have no idea," Conner rasps softly, his voice thick and rough, "how long I've wanted to do that, Doll."

A low, familiar smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, the silver piercing on his lip glinting in the faint moonlight. "And before you say anything... no, I am definitely not letting you go back to Gotham anytime soon."

You let out a soft, breathless laugh, resting your hand against his chest, feeling the steady, powerful thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palm. "Conner...” You want to fight him, to tell him you have to go, that you have a duty and a debt to your city. Things he would never understand.

The sound of the helicopter right outside is loud and unmistakably Wayne, which made you pull apart from the superhuman fast, rushed, like a caught teenager. You rush to the window, and you see him right there, standing outside of the parked helicopter that scared Ma Kent’s cows. You stare at his tall, intimidating figure, and you know you’re going to meet a scold, the sermon of your life. You’ll probably be grounded for a while for the mistake you made, for sliding into Nightwing’s blind spot when you weren’t supposed to engage.

But everything about that night is still fuzzy and confusing. You’re not sure how you made the mistake you did, nor how you ended up in harm’s way. Conner took your waist, and he knows. He just knows how the Bat-family manages, how Bruce shows care and worry through yelling and scolding, and how he punishes by not letting you leave the Manor. Making you feel worthless at the same time.

You take away and walk out of the house to see him. Your posture is perfect, even defiant, as you walk up to him. To Bruce Wayne.

“Hey, B,” you give him a small smile, timid and shy. You don’t know how he’ll take it.

But his ever-stoic facade isn’t up in his mask today. He’s showing noticeably worried and concerned, his eyes softening as you greet him. He rushes into you, taking you in his arms in a crushing hug.

It’s a new sensation to have your father like this. The man who never showed worry, the man who probably would scold you for eternity, was now hugging you in a way that said I was so afraid to lose you.

“I failed you,” he whispered close to your ear, and you freeze. Him? Not you? Not you did everything wrong and that’s why you almost got yourself killed?

“You didn’t. It was a trap. Penguin and Scarecrow were working together. They knew we were coming,” he nodded. Of course he knew before you figured it out.

“They weren’t specifically targeting you. But they knew I was going to send in someone. Scarecrow took me by surprise. I knew about the drop-off. I didn’t think—” he stopped. Bruce was the guy who anticipated everything about everyone, every move. “I failed. And I’m sorry. I almost lost you.”

He hugged you again while Conner was staring at the two of you. The kiss was still making your lips tingle slightly, even when you tried to focus on the destroyed father who thought you were dead hours prior. When no one knew if you would wake up and couldn’t risk taking you anywhere else than the Kent farm.

You melt into Bruce's embrace, resting your forehead against his heavy tactical armor as the steady hum of the helicopter blades fades into the background. For the first time in your life, you don't feel the crushing weight of Gotham’s expectations or the suffocating guilt of a failed mission; you just feel safe. You wrap your arms tight around your father, whispering a quiet reassurance against his shoulder that you're okay, that you're right here. But over Bruce’s shoulder, your eyes lock with Conner’s across the dusty farm yard. Superboy stands by the porch, his hands shoved nonchalantly into his pockets, wearing that warm, devastating smirk that lets you know he saw every single blush, every soft moment, and every uncharacteristic tear. Your lips still tingle from his kiss, the phantom heat of his touch contrasting sharply with the cool Kansas breeze. Bruce tightens his grip on you one last time before pulling back, his hand resting heavy and protective on your shoulder as he prepares to bring his little girl home—but as you take that first step toward the Batwing, you know Gotham isn't the only place holding a piece of your heart anymore.

Taglist: @graciepie09

[sassycurse]

one of the best feelings tbh

[dcfansstuff]

Im happy ts is normal