This is my first time writing for jonkler and he's still difficult for me to get a grip on but I tried my best, I like him best when he's kind of campy but very much an evil bastard. I do tag him as yandere but this is very early stage for him
TW: noncon, fem described reader (sorry fellas there will be a next time), dollification, objectification, captivity, psychological torture (it's not written intensely)
You were normal, and then you weren't. It's as simple as that.
I'd give the usual spiel of how you liked your eggs, how you left tips no matter the state of the diner, took care not to travel a rat trap of a city like Gotham after dusk, except that's a little redundant. You know your history as well as I do no matter how hard strings are yanked to make you forget. A few things have successfully slipped. The street name of your old address. That old high school locker combo, too. What color the door to your last apartment was.
These little proofs that the dam is vincible, you try to ignore them. Like they say, it starts as a trickle. Whatever 'it' is.
Truthfully there's no question as to what 'it' is. The three letter M word isn't welcomed in this black domain, as the acknowledgement alone is the same as inviting it to bed. Same as strengthening it. Teasing it closer.
To dwell on it so long summons the word anyway; mad.
We're all mad. I'm mad, you're mad--
Christ, cut the quotes.
How could you, though? When passages are all you're given to sustain your dried up mind? Words inside it skip along mental keys so much you'd shape the fuzzy outline using your eyes in the dark, seeing them as if they were cubes above your head.
This won't be the end. It can't be. You won't take the emergency exit to this insanity before the world has a chance to reach out and help.
"Oh, dolly, dearest! Papa's home!"
Relief exhales across your arms, your legs, the mouth it exits torn apart to a smile.
That release is not for him. You refuse a single good feeling from him. Nothing inside you is for his taking-- he can keep the shell if he wants. Write his name on it. It's packaging is all it is, he doesn't get your guts and your secrets and your life. That history book is all yours. There's not a thing he could do to rip the true self out of your body.
Even if it gets lonely to keep true to yourself; you're smart. You know better than to warm yourself by a wildfire.
"Ah phooey, where'd I put you this time? Marco!"
Ambience whole and true settles long enough you can hear your breaths despite how shallow you consciously hold them.
He giggles. Or it's a cough. You can taste the smile in his voice. If he heard you he gave no warning.
"Good, good job! Have to admit, I really thought you'd fall for that one, ha!" He's wearing his gloves again. That latex clap to punctuate his thinking tells you everything. Fuck, fuck-- maybe he'll skip the check-up. He'll forget. "... enough with the simon says now, really, where'd I set you off too...?"
You fall back on memories so distant they dissipate beneath you to settle your clenching chest. No panic, no sign of thought, nothing at all, you must be nothing on the outside. So save yourself and think of something other than the rubber squelch to his fingers rifling through the room or warehouse or wherever else you've been moved this time.
Outside the dark pit you lie amongst is a squeak. Prattling, like tin cans on the floor. Papers flying off their desks. Pens crash to the wall. A whole table slams to the shared wall against your casing rattling you inside it. He swears, the word so sharp you'd cross your heart that you felt the spit flecks on your cheek.
It all stops. There's a crack of light reaching through the casing. A sliver of life.
Inside you want to crawl for it knowing full well it's a mere desk lamp. Sunlight doesn't follow the Clown Prince, still, does that mean it must give up on you, too?
Your eyes fall shut and your body stills. Think of the words to change you, to make you empty. If you do, remember, there'll be nothing left for him to take.
"Oh dolly!" He gasps. How happy he sounds-- it's not pure. More like he's touching himself. "There you are! Let's get you out of this stuffy old shoebox before the moths get to my sweet."
With all his might does he take hold either side the shudder, dislodging the blockade over your crypt in long, heavy drags. He'd grunt. Light would fall over you, warm. Another pull, and the polish wares that little bit, groaning across the full length of your figure until your pretty head and your pretty socks peak out for viewing pleasure.
It's good you've closed your eyes. The sudden bright won't make you move to shield yourself.
"You're as darling as I last saw you. Not a hair out of place. Buttons all done up. Why, you haven't even crimped your lace. I ought to give you a gold star."
You lie stark still in that coffin.
"Ah... nevermind. Save for one thing..."
His hands you always expect to feel cold. Pale as he is he must be freezing.
He's warm as a lap clasping the back of your neck gentle, lifting, flopping your skull back into your satin stuffed pillow. A modified casket that anyone but yourself can open.
"Eyes up."
Like your namesake, you let your eyes fall open drinking in only what's ahead of yourself. Him. His face. How his frown that cuts through you in sober fear splits open to a smile.
"Precious thing, there she is. And you've behaved yourself well? No mumbling to Harls? You know dolls can't speak, right?"
That hand around your neck shakes. Now and only now are you allowed to respond in little blinks. Look away if you mean no. Look toward him if yes.
You give him the answer he likes and he drops you flat, hopping up to sit square on your lap. He's not fat but he's no flower either. Naturally your body jolts.
He jabs a gloved finger quick and so close it might poke out your eye.
"Dollies don't move. Ever." He sighs, truly disappointed in you, crossing his legs. His one hand rests flat on your belly to lean in above you. He's rotting petunias. A faint sweetness in a warm breath.
"You know, you've had your hiccups, but all in all you're committed to the bit little dolly. I mean, even I forget there's a brain in there if I don't check."
He taps a languid finger on your forehead. It knocks back.
"I say... it kills the fun, doesn't it? To be so serious. So drab! I think even dear old Batsy and his merry band of birdies won't get the joke... it's not a good joke if you have to explain it after all. They'll just think you're a doll made of plastic."
His heavy hips roll along your lap, mushing the ruffles of your massive skirts piled to ruffled clouds up to your knees, knees lipped in cotton white socks fitted by angels, the soft pad of your toes poking at the edges suggesting soft flesh through the mesh. Plumpy skin on a body so still it begs to be swallowed.
That's what he sees. What his finger leads across from your chest tight in a bodice, testing its give. Looping the ties across your waist in his long fingers and tugging to lift you up the one second, and watch you plop back to place once he let go. Your hair wisps away like it's in water, curling to your lips, your eyes, like reaching hands.
"No, no... this whole idea needed someone else to work. You hear that? You're overqualified, dolly."
This whole plan. The weeks or months you spent in chairs combed and plucked and polished, laying still in the dark, your limbs tugged along as an action figure in his imagined face-off with the Bat-- he's just. Giving up on it all? He's fucking shelving you?
Across, your hips creak, your skirts twirling up when he drags himself fully over you. His hands at your shoulders. Fluorescent hair a mess on his head.
"In fact. If I dropped you in front of the Bat, I think he'd want you in a glass case on his wall... And I do so hate having my things stolen."
Cavalry won't come. He takes a hammer to the core of your resolve in one lay of the hand at your cheek.
"I'll just keep you!" He cheers bright. "Doesn't that sound good, dolly? No nasty Robin's to put their grubby hands on you? I certainly wouldn't trust Dickyboy around you. I think he's got a thing for damsels in distress."
You can't feel your breaths. They remain shallow as hard as your chest swells into itself. This is it. The death grip on history was for nothing.
He sees it in your eyes. How your pupils shrink under the terrible gift of knowing. My oh my do you stir up this madness in him. A rare, drooling madness older than dirt.
Where he's sat upon your lap, he looks beneath. Your petticoats' all ruffled to hell and back.
He can see the lace he's done you up in under there. Your pretty bloomers soft as cotton candy. Fluffy like it, too.
"Now. Let's get your check-up in order." Behind him he won't see how your toes curl. It's all you can do to scream when he yanks that glove to a sharp snap. "See if you've rubbed off my signature with all your wiggling..."
His name, written under your skirts, your petticoats. His name scribbled in ink below your navel where his gloves will stain in the sweet waters he'll call from you with nothing but a luring finger.
You don't want to go among mad people. You haven't much of a choice.
I feel like the poem was maybe a little too much but rn I like it.... If anyone has thoughts on him lmk there's such an xreader drought for this man I'm trying to rally the troops with these short works
TW: gender neutral reader, stalking, creep focused yandere, threats (very veiled. To add more tags would ruin the subtlety)
February seventh was the tamest, a box on your doorstep.
Velvet skinned, pristine; the thing blinded you opening the door to check the mailbox.
It's full of these chocolates. A factory line up of varieties, with a handful of milks, darks, cream filling, others nuts, pretzels, and they're not chalk dusted like the ones in super markets. These sweat when you breathe near them.
It'd take you days to ration it. If you ate it, that is.
The box was plucked, dressed, sealed in heavens kitchen, then air dropped on your scuffed 'HELLO' mat.
How it survived porch pirates could only be explained by the new tenant next door keeping an eye on your stuff.
Whoever lives there hardly makes a sound, coming and going in the palest rays of day or in the throes of night. You heard them once by total chance while pulling your pants on. A long, skinny sound, dragging down the wall like fabric, likely setting down a nylon suitcase.
Indefinitely, your chocolate is sentenced to solitary confinement in your countertops darkest corner; travelling in spirit as a passing mention to your coworkers late in the afternoon.
"Off-topic, but, you know someone left me candy on my doorstep?"
Daylights harbinger is a wailing siren this part of the city. Bathroom first thing. A drink second.
You flex hard as not to drop your mug.
Box one. Box two. Wrapped so tight the paper lays flat to every plane. When you're cutting them both you resort to destroying their outsides as you can't find the careful margins where the tapes been tucked.
Behind box one; a mug. When you two finger carry it to the sink for a hot bath, a heart fades into form on the front under the bleach water.
Box two was a bitch opening up, because out popped another box, with another inside it, then another, and in the very middle sat a tin can. Bush baked beans.
You toss it, miffed you followed through such a lame series of efforts.
In return it popped, exploding ribbons and glitter vomit on your rug. After that you launched it in the garbage. The can nearly tipped over.
Tomorrow, three gifts. And four more after that day. Every single morning, without fail, long before you wake up, a family of gifts wait at your door totally clean, iron flat, invisibly taped, expecting you to let them inside.
It should grate on you, yet the items go from semi romantic slash friendly to nonsensical so fast you're perplexed, cursed with an itch to know 'what's in that one?'.
In one box, you even got 'iron tough' shoelaces for boots.
Highlights include; caulk, a scraping tool, rubber mallet (it was huge), chattering teeth, expired movie tickets for a showing of 'Nosferatu', and other gags you either trash or have to clean up.
The teeth are a fun paper weight, though.
A week from the first day exactly, you get your final gift.
An envelope. Not the pile of seven boxes you assumed you'd be burdened with. It's marred in an ink smear.
Still in your pajamas, towel set down beneath you far from the living room carpet where you sit with your socked feet poked out, you split it open with a ballpoint,
"
The streets rumbled with drawn carriages
For Prince Arthur had become King
His mind would escape him with these dark ages
Behind the pale linen chewed through by moths, he found his bride alive in his vanity reflection
He'd make a prince with him yet;
layering his old tongue across the mirror in panic
As he swallowed its lead,
So would his bride taste its poison
And neither would recall a time while they slobber blind
When they'd been so happy
"
You sat with it for a long, long time. You nearly missed the bus when you left for work, too busy holding it and trying not to breathe too hard so nothing in the room could see you. As if some beast would pop out and start mauling you; like it was an incantation.
When you got home ready for a shower, you heard it again. The skinny drag.
Right upon the wall gleams a catch of silver. Moonlight pouring through; a hole.
You'll caulk it, you think. Save your deposit even though it wasn't you who put it there. You've already got a tube somewhere.
It makes you freeze right there with your hands on your belt buckle.
You do have a tube, don't you?
You stare into the hole longer, and you're back where you were reading that note trying not to breathe too loudly. Trying not to move and give away your position.
A faint, skinny sound crawls back up the wall.
It takes the blinking moon with it.
Sum: There is a dead body in your freezer, a vigilante at your door, and unfortunately, only one of those things is about to become your biggest problem.
Inspired by the Webtoon I Dare You and this little blurb.
Yandere! Dick Grayson x Reader // 5.4k
Warnings: Yandere, fem!reader, paranoid/unreliable reader, stalking, murder/corpse disposal, dead body in freezer, minor character death, memory loss/traumatic brain injury, medical abuse, forced medication, restraints, captivity themes, gaslighting, unhealthy relationships/hella toxic dynamics, corrupt police, abuse of power, blood, attempted violence, non-con touching, coercion, reader is definitely not okay, Dick is extremely not okay but we should all expect that, Dick is a cop, MDNI.
Thereâs a dead body in the freezer.
That is all you can think about as you stare at the dark-haired vigilante standing on the doorstep of your shabby apartment in downtown BlĂŒdhaven. The hallway light flickers behind him as he stares down at you with startling blue eyes. His easy expression falters the moment he sees you, his gaze widening as though the past has opened the door wearing your face.
He is one of those masked bats. Birds. A hero from television who could take you away and lock you in a cold cell where the lights never turn off, and you have to pee in front of prison guards.
What if they have a piss fetish?
Okay so, there's a dead body in your freezer, a vigilante at your door, and a very real possibility that your future involves forever-turned-on lights, communal toilets, and a prison guard with suspicious interests. School does not prepare you for situations like these.
You don't quite remember much of school, only that you passed enough classes to secure a nine-to-five and afford an apartment with electricity. Electricity keeps the freezer running. The freezer keeps the body cold. Until tonight, that has been enough to prevent situations like this.
The vigilante seems far more concerned about your well-being than whatever crimes might be waiting inside your apartment. He keeps trying to peer past you, tilting his pretty face toward the narrow gap you have left between the door and its rotting frame.
Your fingers blanch on the knob.
âIs anyone else home?â the vigilante asks. His tone is easy, almost careless, but his gaze keeps moving over your face. The way his eyes move makes you uneasy. Does he know? Is he going to take you to prison? Are you going to end up on death row?
âI was expecting somebody else.â He laughs softly, then adds on quickly, âNot that finding you instead is a bad thing. Itâs justâŠâ His eyes flick past your shoulder toward the apartment. âCould I come inside for a minute? I need to check something.â
The door is open exactly six inches. Any narrower is rude; any wider, heâll see the kitchen. Then he might ask about the deep freezer.
You certainly don't care about a man dressed like a bum with a hero suit underneath: joggers, an unzipped jacket, and the dark blue bird stretched across his chest. He does seem familiar.
But everyone does when you lose your memory.
âItâs too late to let strangers in,â you say rather flatly. You wouldnât want a bum like him in your apartment anyway. Dead body or not.
His brows pinch, disappointment sliding across that perfect face.
Wrong answer.
Adjust.
A practical thought clicks into place: if he sees the freezer, punishment follows. A pre-emptive correction would be simply killing him. But there is no physical room beside the meal prep. Shifting him to the fridge would evict five days of carefully portioned meals, and the power bill is already stripping your bank account. Spoiled food means no food. No food means starving.
You canât afford to get stupid.
A gentle tap-tap on the doorframe pulls your eyes back up. He smiles, soft and warm, igniting an unwelcome heat in your cheeks. To your surprise, his cheeks are pink as well.
âIâll just⊠call her,â he murmurs, fingers drifting toward his pocket.
âSheâs on vacation,â you blurt, too loud and way too quick to be considered normal. Another wrong answer, if the brief, puzzled tilt of his brow means anything.
But then he smiles, thinner this time, as though he is masking a bruise of disappointment. Either he is already suspicious and plans to alert the authorities, or he will try again on some quieter night. For the moment, you survive the encounter.
Still, a problem remains: thereâs no freezer space for a second corpse, not unless you ditch the meal prep.
You watch him retreat down the dim hallway, one hand lifted in a genial wave before he disappears into the rattling elevator cage at the far end. Only when the doors slide shut do you slam the deadbolt, shove the chain back in place, and glance at the freezer.
The week passes without sirens, arrests, or freezer re-arrangements. You almost believe the vigilante was a fever dream - until a new voice slides through the paper-thin wall.
The building has been hollow for two years; anyone with sense either fled or wrapped themselves in the same caretaker-cocoon that once shielded you. Six months ago that cocoon tore, and routine became sedative: clock-in, clock-out, corpse check, reheated meal prep. The caregiverâs old tablet still pings PAID each month, money shrinking in an account you canât access. Donât think about investigations. Investigations ask questions.
The scrape-and-thud of furniture next door means fresh eyes. You crouch on cracked linoleum, snapping dry ramen into crooked shapes beside the chained freezer, and listen to a mid-twenties male voice on speaker: boxes, deliveries, parking permits - ordinary words that grate because ordinary people notice smells and knock on managementâs door when your apartment is too loud. You swallow brittle noodles and run tonightâs checklist: finish the last stir-fry, rewrap the feet - frostburn is creeping, drain the drip tray, and smile if the newcomer says hello.
Caregiverâs Rule #12: smiles disarm.
Across the wall, you hear a door close. His front door. Footsteps echo down the hall, unless itâs only your heartbeat. Itâs difficult to tell. The sound seems to move through the floorboards instead of over them, each step pressing closer, until the apartment feels too small to hold you, the freezer, and all the terrible inside it.
Is he going to introduce himself now?
You click the lock shut on the freezer. The faint sound of safekeeping does nothing to stop the dread that fills you with every step outside your door. Then comes a light tap against the wood, just like before.
You slowly ease yourself up, trying to seem neither too willing to open the door nor too afraid of what waits behind it.
Afraid people invite questions.
You force a smile onto your face. Do you look normal? Does the body smell, and have you simply gotten used to it?
The math is getting ugly: one freezer, one body, two possible problems.
Play smart.
Unlocking the door proves to be more difficult than it was a week ago. Your hands shake as they slide the lock out of place, and you do your best attempt at a cheerful smile. âYou must be the new neighbor,â you force out.
Unease settles low in your stomach as you glance up at him. Same height as the vigilante who came by last week. Less of a bum, however. He wears a cardigan over a white shirt, with nice-looking pants that seem dry-cleaned, which is odd for a resident in this slum of a building. Same blue eyes that pin you in place and the same familiar dimpled smile that reminds you of your nightmares from the other night.
It would be easier if they were the same person. Then you would only have one body to worry about, but the chances of them being the same are awfully slim, and you are not one to take chances. Especially when thereâs a cell waiting for you.
âI am,â he says, voice coated in honey. âThin walls, huh?â
Heâs friendlier than the vigilante from last week, though that does nothing to comfort you. His voice is nothing but warm, neighborly, and harmless. Suspicion builds in your stomach. Or maybe youâre just hungry. However, you donât quite enjoy the caged-animal feeling that licks up your spine when his arm comes to rest against the wall, blocking your view of the hallway and any possible exits.
Nice guys - those are the ones you worry about.
âDick Grayson,â he offers, extending a hand you refuse. Too risky to exchange DNA when thereâs a felony cooling five feet away. âBlĂŒdhaven PD. Anything you needâŠâ
Shit. Sirens begin to scream inside your skull. The freezer rattles awake behind you. Your sins are already mocking you.
You manage that it must be âniceâ - wrong adjective.
His smile slices: âNice isnât the word.â
You scramble for âsafe,â tack on âfor youâ as if that helps. Since cops get wrist-slaps for killing, your brain mutters - you choke the thought down.
He softens, coaxing: âItâs not always safe.â Bait. Your gaze returns to his hands - broad, sure, the sort that could pry a freezer lid or close over a throat. Your stomach tightens. He keeps the patter light, claims he didnât want to be rude, asks if youâre always like this.
âYes,â you say, which somehow amuses him. You donât really get the social cue behind it all. Then the real kicker, delivered with a wink: âHave a good night - and donât forget your medication.â
Your smile turns to ice. You never mentioned the pills.
You should really kill him.
First plan: poison - too slow. Second: ceramic vase - probably shatters. Third: push him down the stairs - lobby cameras.
Shouldâve checked the cameras.
Sirens howl in your head; even the freezer seems to vibrate with them. He knows youâre unmedicated. Worse - he knows youâre alone.
This is still normal, you insist, bolting the door a second time now. The padlockâs click echoes louder than his footsteps retreating down the hall.
Youâve been hiding ever since Dick Grayson moved in two weeks ago. Since then, he has learned your schedule like the back of his own hand. He knows when you leave, hears the tardy shuffle in your step, counts the key fumbles when you chase the bus. He even indulges himself by stopping at the same coffee shop every morning, just to say hello before you scamper off to your pitiful nine-to-five. On Fridays, you return late with plastic bags full of discount groceries, shoulders hunched beneath the weight of marked-down items.
You used to leave the apartment more. Not much, but enough. A trip to the mailbox before work. A stop at the corner store after. Sometimes you would linger outside the laundromat with your tote bag pressed to your side, watching people through the glass like you were trying to remember how normal worked. But now that he has moved in beside you, your schedule has changed, and so have the dark circles under your eyes. You avoid him more often than not. You keep your curtains drawn shut, the cheap fabric pulled tight even in the middle of the afternoon. You only access the mailbox when he leaves for work, even if the morning paper you are so insistent on grabbing is already a day behind.
A sigh escapes him as he lies on his bed, shoulder pressed against the shared wall, listening for any sound from your apartment.
Nothing.
That bothers him more than noise would. The breaker tripped a few hours ago. He heard the electricity die through the wall, that low mechanical hum in your apartment cutting out all at once, leaving behind a flat, ugly quiet. It would be easy to climb onto your patio, pick the lock, and flip the switch back on for you. An easier option would be to check whether the caregiver he hired took the money and left you all alone.
His jaw tightens. You shouldnât be working in your condition.
He groans into the hands resting over his face, dragging his palms down until the heels press against his eyes. Then he turns, burying his face into your old pillow. It barely smells like you anymore, but he still keeps it tucked beneath his head every night like a comfort plush.
How long have you been alone? It has to be at least six months. Maybe seven. You were fine when he left for Gotham. Or fine enough. The accident had left you different, sure. More numb. A little damaged in a way even the best doctors could not fully smooth over. But you had been alive and mostly manageable.
It has been two years now since the accident. Two years since the ring box sat heavy on the carâs center console, black velvet catching the passing streetlights every time the vehicle moved beneath them. He had asked you too soon. He knows that. You knew that. The two of you had been fighting more. He had been getting rougher with you, quicker to grab, to corner, to tell himself it was only because you scared him when you talked about leaving. You had threatened to leave. He had started acting too much like Bruce, all paranoia.
He has always been too hasty. Asking for your hand in marriage was never the mistake. Just the timing of it. You had stared at him with tears in your eyes as you tried to set boundaries, your face losing color as he promised he would keep you safe. No matter how badly you misunderstood him. Your fingers had curled around the seat belt, pressed hard against the buckle.
He had thought you were overwhelmed. Even tried the calming techniques first, using a low voice that typically worked with your outbursts. His hand open. Breathe with me, princess. Youâre okay. But you kept shaking your head and reaching for the door, so he had started reaching for the tranquilizer dart in the back seat, just to get you quiet until he could bring you home and keep you safe until the wedding.
You were probably just afraid of happiness. Maybe thatâs why you did it.
You were quick to unlock the car door. Quicker than his hand as he lunged across the console. Even faster than the desperate grip of his fingers against your sleeve before you slipped through them and threw yourself out of the vehicle.
Did you have to jump?
The question is as familiar as the guilt that ate him alive when he saw you in the hospital, your head wrapped in white, tubes taped to your skin and down your throat, machines clicking and breathing around you. Severe brain damage, they said. A long recovery. But money fixed enough of it. Bruceâs money. The best doctors the area could offer, even some who flew in. Bruceâs hand clamped heavy on his shoulder as the old man told him, âDonât let it get to you. There are plenty of fish out there.â
But you were the only one he wanted to catch.
Did you have to throw yourself out of a moving car to get away from him? Was life with him that hellish?
He hates that word. Hellish. It doesnât belong in his memories with you. Not in the kitchen, where he cooked meals and set bowls in front of you even when you glared at him as if he had poisoned them. Sure, you threw one at his face once. Called him a pervert. A fake hero. But you were simply cranky some days. Overwhelmed. Easy to brush off, the same way you brushed away the blankets he laid over your shoulders when you pretended not to be cold.
It doesnât belong with the little doodles and notes he left on the fridge either, even if some of them came back shredded into death notes. Or with the scissors he had to pry from your hands while you threatened to slit your throat if he didnât let you leave.
Of course, there were nights when you slow-danced with him in the living room to old love songs, your cheek resting against his chest as you finally got tired of fighting. Or even the mornings when you woke soft and quiet, blinking up at him like you forgot why you were angry. The afternoons when you asked so prettily for fresh air after he had kept you locked in the bedroom for too long, voice hoarse, fingers curled into his shirt.
Sure, spanking worked when you got too difficult, but so did a good timeout from time to time. You always melted against him after being alone long enough.
You could be sweet when you wanted to be. That was love. It had to be love.
He had loved you enough to try to move on with Barbara back in Gotham. It worked for a couple of weeks. Better than sitting at your bedside, loving you through recovery while you could barely remember who he was, watching your confused, frightened eyes fill with fear when he leaned too close. The times when he needed to remind you with a hand pinching your air tube that he was still the person you were supposed to kiss back.
His hand curls against the bedsheet where you would have slept.
If the Joker had not been loose for six months, Dick would have come back to you sooner. He would have continued his weekly checkups while you were drugged and less observant. Your caregiver was always good at giving you more than you needed to help with the nightmares she claimed were about him.
Theyâre just dreams. Heâs not your monster.
You slept deeply enough then that he could sit beside your bed, brush the hair from your face, adjust your blanket, and pretend the quiet between you was peace instead of punishment. You never flinched in your sleep.
He cut things off with Barbara when he came back here. Watched her cry as he held her, her face tucked against his shoulder, her fingers twisting in the back of his shirt. He felt bad. Of course he felt bad. But her tears didnât make him want to choke sense into her. They didnât make him want to kiss her until she stopped making that awful, broken sound.
Yours did, however.
Youâre not the same as before. He expected that. Certainly much healthier than you were in the hospital, at least. Your social skills are lacking, but that is expected when a lamb first learns how to walk again. If anything, it works out for the best. Youâre more relaxed around him now. You donât keep the lock in place like you used to when the two of you were first seeing each other. You donât insult him. You stopped crying. The list could go on and on about how oddly perfect things would be between you two.
Finally, he hears your footsteps down the hall. Should he greet you? No. That would be too eager. He shouldnât frighten such a delicate creature after work.
Your front door unlocks. He listens to the stumble of your shoes against the floor, the rustle of a plastic bag, the small irritated sound you make when something bumps into the wall. After a handful of minutes, the breaker clicks back on. The apartment gives a faint electric shudder through the wall, and the hum returns. You must have noticed by now that it has been off for a couple of hours. Itâs a heatwave, after all. You probably have too many appliances plugged in.
Maybe he could offer to cook for you tonight. Something simple. Pasta, maybe. Open that fresh bottle of wine he got from a buddy. He can show up at your door with a friendly neighbor smile, pretend he hasnât spent the last few hours listening for proof you are still breathing. You might let him in if he plays his cards right. He can pour you a glass, make you laugh, kiss you before walking you back to your door like the old days.
Then he hears it.
Your door opens again.
Are you leaving?
Dick pushes himself upright, head tilting toward the wall. Your footsteps are quick this time. Frantic. You mutter under your breath, the same word over and over.
Ice.
You must be going to the convenience store. All your food must have spoiled, or at least enough of it to scare you. That refrigerator was never the greatest. It was never his idea to keep you here for two years. You were supposed to move in with him after one, but work got busy. Gotham got loud. People kept needing him, and you had been safe enough. Or he thought you were.
Heâs already moving before he finishes the thought, tugging his work uniform back into place, smoothing a hand over his glossy dark hair in the mirror by the door. The uniform helps. A good excuse for running into you at the convenience store down the road.
A friendly neighbor coming home after a long night of police work.
If Dick had known you could make such a horrified expression and still look so painfully cute, he might have pulled a stunt like this sooner. The convenience store is nearly empty at this hour. Outside, the heatwave fogs the beer-ad glass; inside, you stand in front of the ice chest with both arms full, eight plastic bags stacked awkwardly against your chest, as if youâre trying to carry a body instead of save one. He taps your shoulder; you nearly drop everything.
âThrowing a party?â he teases, bright and harmless, as though meeting here were a coincidence either of you should believe. His gaze flicks from the bags to your face - eight is a lot of ice for someone with no friends in any file heâs pulled, no emergency contacts who call more than once, no coworkers who walk you home. Youâre usually alone.
That has always made things easier.
Your eyes jump to his uniform, then his badge, before Dick lifts a hand in an open-palm wave.
âEasy,â he says. âJust me.â Your grip only tightens; water runs from a corner of one bag and slides down your wrist. You donât seem to notice. You're so much stranger and more calculated - so unlike the version of you who once snapped at him for thrills and shoved him away after too many kisses. Different isnât ruined; itâs just leverage.
Your reply is lost to the freezer hum and the cashierâs squeaking stool.
âWhat was that?â he prompts. You glance at the bored clerk, then back at him, and repeat too loudly: âItâs for coffee meal prep.â He nearly laughs. Eight bags for morning coffee? Adorable. He props a shoulder against the glass, frost blooming behind him. âYou need eight for one cup?â A beat. âTired of seeing me in the mornings?â
You look away, try to brush past. âItâs melting - I wonât have any to practice with if it melts.â
Practice? Before you can retreat, he lifts six bags off your pile. You jerk for them, a small startled sound, but heâs always been stronger. For an instant he sees the old fury in your eyes, enough to make his heart kick before he reins in the teasing.
âHow about I help?â he offers gently.
You huff and push toward the register while meltwater stipples the floor. Dick follows, shifts the bags against his hip, and - before you can fish out your wallet - taps his card: beep. You freeze mid-reach.
âI had it,â you mutter.
âI know,â he smiles. âAnd now you still have it.â
Tension moves between you, louder than the compressor rattle; the cashier pretends not to listen.
Why eight bags? Maybe the breaker scare sent you spiraling, food spoiling after the caregiver vanished. No reason for you to budget groceries or lug ice through BlĂŒdhaven at night when heâs right here. Heâll audit the caregiverâs spending, see where the money went.
The bell jingles as you step into wet heat. Sidewalk puddles shine under streetlights; a distant siren wails and fades. You walk too fast - shoes slapping pavement in a nervous tempo - bags swinging hard against your legs. Each time you edge toward the curb, Dick glides between you and traffic. âCareful,â he says. You flinch. âIâm careful.â Twice you reach for the ice heâs carrying; twice he shifts it easily away.
âTheyâll melt faster if we stop to argue,â he reminds you. That quiets you, though your eyes keep darting: his hands, the street, the apartment looming ahead. Plastic crackles whenever your grip flexes, leaving a thin trail of meltwater. When you veer to the curb again, he blocks you.
âWalking on the outside,â he explains - seat-belt muscle memory, sleeve slipping from his grasp.
âThatâs not necessary,â you protest.
âHumor me,â he smiles, and you swallow the argument.
The lobby smells of old mail and cherry-lemon cleaner that never makes the place look clean. But it does take the smell of mold out. Elevatorâs Under Construction - crooked sign over the button - so you climb the stairs. Halfway up, you freeze, alarmed to find him behind you.
âGo on. Iâm not in a rush.â He motions ahead.
You donât like his eyes on your back; good to know. He takes the next flight first, listening to your uneven breathing and the ice shifting in your arms.
Hallway air is thicker than outside, trapped under flickering bulbs. Your door waits - paint chipped, peephole cloudy, chain probably dangling because you left in a hurry. His door is beside it, close enough to hear everything. You whirl, blocking your knob.
âI can take them now.â Your smile appears a beat late - the wrong mask worn the wrong way. Dickâs chest warms.
âShould I help you get these inside?â he asks, voice honey-soft. Helping is love; love lets him in.
You have gotten yourself into a spectacular pickle.
Bargaining at the threshold proves useless: your arms are full of melting ice, his arms are full of melting ice, and technically all of it belongs to you. You assure him - politely, firmly, repeatedly - that he doesnât need to come inside, the bags arenât heavy, itâs late, he must be tired, youâd hate to be a bother. Normal words for normal people. Dick Grayson only smiles and hoists the bags higher as they start to sink again.
Nice people are harder to shake; your caregiver warned you about that. They treat no like an invitation to try harder. Eight bags were a mistake. Four would have meant coffee prep or a broken fridge - anything ordinary. Eight screams emergency. Eight screams hidden freezer. Eight screams a smell youâre praying belongs to yesterdayâs trash.
Behind the door, the apartment waits. So does the smell.
Sweet, damp, wrong - probably already leaking from the freezer seams after hours without power in a heatwave. Please be trash, please be trash. Maybe it isnât bad yet. Maybe the chain kept the lid sealed. Maybe the trash under the sink reeks worse. You have never hoped for trash before, but thereâs a first time for everything when a corpse is thawing in your kitchen.
Open the door and risk the odor. Refuse and risk the neighborâs suspicions. Stand here and the ice keeps melting, the body keeps warming, the officer eventually calls someone. The officer is someone.
Slower disaster is better than fast. Keys slip in your wet fingers; metal clinks too loudly. Laugh. Harmless people laugh. You laugh like a woman youâve seen in movies over misplaced keys, not like a woman calculating whether she can drop a policeman before he draws his gun. Dick doesnât laugh back - he only watches.
Finally the lock turns. You step in first; he follows, gently shuts the door - then locks it. Fine, be creepy. Warm, stale air greets you, carrying a faint, rotting sweetness. Trash. Just trash. You clutch the ice, march past the chained chest freezer, swear you wonât look - then look anyway. Chain still tight. Good. Bad.
âShould I put these in the freezer?â he asks, kindness itself. For one absurd beat, you almost answer yes, right beside the dead woman. Then you see where heâs staring: not at you, but at the chain around the lid.
âDo you have a key?â
Words jam in your throat. A lock for sleep-eating? A safety latch? All terrible.
Your gaze darts to the ceramic vase by the door- heavy, blue-flowered, dusty. It has held receipts, dead pens, a spare button. It could hold blood. You edge one bag against your hip, freeing a hand. His head is turned. His hands are full. You might have a second. Handleâs chipped - wonât slip. Good.
Aim for his perfect face. If he falls, the entry rug is dark, good for soaking. Ice buys time. Boxes in his apartment for the body parts. One problem at a time.
Dick should have expected it. Your fire never truly burned away - no amount of medication or brain damage could smother that stubborn spark. Of course you fought him: manic smile at the door, polite excuses stacking. Of course you lunged for the vase. You were a frightened animal that didnât know what was good for you.
He whistles low as he crouches by the chest freezer, one knee sinking into damp flooring, bobby pin clamped between his teeth. Picking the padlock feels crude but easier than ripping off the chain or searching for a key. The apartment smells off - wrong, even by your standards. Beside him, the ice bags sweat into widening puddles. He glances over.
You glare from the floor - cheek pressed to the fake tile, hair pasted to your face, both wrists cuffed to the radiator pipe because you refused to sit, to stop kicking, practically refused every warning he gave you. Pride props your hips at an uncomfortable angle; muffled sobs stutter as you try to swallow them. Stubborn thing. Makes him nostalgic for every time you mistook courage for good odds.
âYouâre in trouble!â you shout, yanking the cuff. Metal rattles; skin scrapes raw, a thin red line blooming toward your palm. His smile fades. âCareful,â he murmurs.
You ignore him. âThereâs a vigilante around here.â
Bobby pin pauses. He meets your eyes, smiles. âI know, baby. If only he were here.â Fury and panic twist your features - here you are. Not healed, but flickering under fear: sharp mouth, wounded pride, fight that proves you need someone stronger.
Click. Chain slithers to the wet floor like a dropped leash. You go still. Breath hitches in tiny bursts; his palm rests on the lid, not lifting yet, enjoying the desperate set of your face. Beg me not to.
âWhatâs in here?â he asks, voice low. Your lips tremble. Silence. âBaby, what did you do?â Thumb stroking the lip, he waits.
âA body.â The words leak out - tiny, broken.
He studies your face first: eyes wet, cheek glued to tile, wrist bleeding. Embarrassed, not remorseful - cornered, not guilty. Pulse steadies.
âA body,â he repeats, then lifts the lid. Cold sighs out, followed by sweetness gone sour. Plastic-wrapped limbs, frost-blurred features - the caregiver, tucked in with practical care. His gaze traces corpse, chain, puddled ice, then you: still glaring, still calculating whether biting helps. Optimistic.
âWell,â he breathes. Lid stays open; smell dulls. A cop should radio this in. Nightwing should. Instead he thinks: six months alone, one corpse, no help until now.
âYouâre going to need someone, arenât you, princess?â
âDonât call me that.â Sharp even now.
He smiles with a fond look in his eyes. âI can make this disappear - body, payments, reports.â You stop struggling to listen. Good. âBut youâll do something for me.â He crouches close. Hard not to kiss your tears away.
âYouâll stop hiding. Take meds when I say. Eat real food.â His thumb grazes your torn wrist, voice softening, while his other hand trails down your spine. âAnd youâll quit hurting yourself trying to escape the only man trying to help.â
A strangled sound escapes as his palm settles over your heat, giving you two soft, almost patronizing pats. His smile widens as you look over at him, cheeks warmed and dewy. His fingers find their way between your legs and glide along your slit, earning such pretty sounds from your lips. You probably haven't been touched for months. Years, even. So loyal, aren't you? Willing to do anything to cover up your little mistake, huh?
âIf youâre lucky,â he whispers, âmaybe Iâll marry a cruel thing like you.â He kisses the tear-damp cheek, tasting salt, watching your lips purse back. Pulling his hand away just to watch the frustration on your face. Maybe he'll save such things for marriage. Shouldn't get too hasty. Especially not after last time.
Closed off and cold reader who gets super flustered and shy around their favorite hero and inadvertently causes their family to get jealous over it because what the fuck. Flash?? Really??? Like, we get it. Heâs cool and all. But heâs not all that.
Of the many things you've said about your lieutenant, ghost, never once would you have expected to say he's...shockingly good with babies.
"Hey lil' man," ghost coos to the baby sat in his lap, happily chewing on the ear of a snoopy plush with a tiny fist wrapped around ghosts pinky. "Having fun? Thinking up some big things, I'm sure."
It looks comical how small a normal, healthy baby looks in his lap. Little arms waving absolutely while it turns to look at ghosts unmasked face. Baby doesn't cry, only stares up at ghost before exclaiming "ahh!! Babbfaaahh!!"
Ghost, he only laughs and holds baby up in his palms so baby can touch all over his scarred face. Little excited "ah ah ah"s and random giggling interspersed whenever ghost pulled a funny face.
"Smart fella, ain't you?" Ghost snorts, sets baby back down to chew on snoopy. He's got this soft, sappy expression on his face. Looks so natural with a baby in his arms. You can't help but snap a few photos.
Next time you baby sit, you'll ask your cousin about letting the twins stay over. You have a strange feeling ghost would love a princess fairy teaparty.
$ log - bruce wayne is utterly poisoned by you â your body, your mind, your very soul. he knows the addiction is a sickness, a gilded delusion taking root in his mind. yet he crawls back to your sanctuary every time, driven by the grovelling instinct of a stray begging for its fix.
$ warn --nsfw --dubcon(heavy) --dom!afab!reader --poison-ivy!reader --manipulative!reader --sub!bruce --pussy-drunk!bruce --intox(aphrodisiacs) --positions(missionary) --p-in-v --oral(cunnilingus, mentioned) --creampie --clit-play --messy --praise --degradation --begging
$ wc -w 2.6k
$ cd masterlist / dc
$ view draft post
# note = reader has a pitcher-plant inspired pussy, which is delved into more detail.
The greenhouse rose around you as a cathedral of emerald shadows and suffocating heat, a secret Eden where the air hung thick with damp earth and a dangerous, honeyed sweetness. Moonlight slanted through the reinforced glass, fracturing into silver ribs across prehistoric ferns and the writhing vines that choked the sanctuary.
Standing at the centre of the bloom, your back to the threshold, your fingers wove through a cluster of night-blooming orchids with practiced, liquid grace.
You required no sight to mark his arrival. The atmosphere surged, altered by the dense, disciplined presence that forever heralded his approach. Leather groaned softly in the quiet; a heavy breath escaped a man burdened by the weight of an entire city. Lingering at the doorway, he remained suspended between his duty to the night and the magnetic pull of your scent.
"Back so soon, Bruce?" you purred, keeping your gaze fixed on the blossoms, your voice smooth as velvet dipped in honey. "I assumed Gotham claimed its protector tonight. Or did your hunt lead you to more captivating prey in my garden?"
Silence stretched between you, drawn so taut it threatened to snap like dry timber. Slow, heavy footsteps broke the stillness, closing the divide with deliberate weight.
"I couldnât focus," he admitted, his voice a fractured echo of its usual command. Turning at last, you met him inches away â his cowl drawn back, his face pale and sharp under the silver light. Dark eyes, stripped of their tactical vigilance, locked onto yours with a raw, ravenous hunger. "Every time I close my eyes, I see you."
His gaze dipped lower, tracing the quickened rhythm of your breath beneath thin silk before tunneling back to the source of the intoxication. He stood there like a dying man before a feast, his jaw set so tight the muscle twitched beneath his dark stubble.
"You know what you're doing to me," he growled, bridging the final fraction of space until his bodyâs heat bled straight into yours. "This isn't just attraction. It's... poison."
"Then drink up, Bruce," you whispered, trailing a single fingernail along the carved line of his jaw. "Unless you fear what remains when your control finally shatters."
You lay back against the bed of woven grass, your thighs spread wide to expose the glistening marvel of your pussy. It wasn't merely flesh; it was a botanical trap, lined with petals that seemed to breathe. Along the delicate outline of your inner labia, tiny, translucent thorns sharp as glass but fine as silk glinted in the dim light, promising a delicious sting.
Bruce didn't hesitate. He moved between your legs like a man possessed, his cock already weeping pre-cum as he pressed against you. His hands were unsteady, trembling as one hand clamped around your hip, anchoring you, while the other fumbled to stroke your core.
His thumb dragged across the sensitive flesh, inadvertently catching on one of those microscopic thorns. Upon the striking sensitivity, you let out a sharp gasp as the tiny sting pierced his skin.
"Fuck," he hissed, but he didn't pull away.
Instead, he pressed harder, his cock sliding against the slick walls of you â a hungry well that seemed to draw him deeper with every twitch. As he pushed inside, your anatomy responded instinctively, a thick, syrupy aphrodisiac nectar began to dribble from your depths, coating his cock in a viscous, sweet lubricant that smelled of crushed jasmine and decay. The moment it touched his sensitive skin, his pupils dilated further.
He began to thrust, his movements desperate and uncoordinated as he fought to bury himself as deep as possible within your slick, alien depths.
"God, you're so tight, so warm," Bruce groaned against your neck, his teeth grazing your skin. "It's like you're swallowing me whole."
The sensation was immensely overwhelming. Every time his cock scraped against the inner walls, more of that viscous nectar flooded out, coating him in a drug-laced fluid that made every inch of him scream. You could feel the heat of him, the way his cock pulsed inside you as it reacted to the chemicals seeping from your membranes.
Then, his thumb found your clit and he began to stroke it with an incessant rhythm. The moment his thumb applied pressure to that swollen bud, you reacted with terrifying intensity. Spasming, your pussy clamped down on his cock with a crushing force that drew a strangled cry from his throat.
"More," you groaned , your fingers digging into the corded muscle of his shoulders. "Harder, Bruce. Fuck me like you're trying to drown in me."
The aphrodisiac was flooding his system now, seeping through his pores from the friction alone. His movements lost what little coordination remained, devolving into something primal and filthy. He was trying to burrow into your very essence, his cock sliding through layers of your soaking intoxication that made every thrust feel like he was being pulled into a deep, narcotic abyss.
"I can't â " Bruce's protest died in his throat as your cunt spasmed around him again, the milking pressure so intense it felt like your walls were trying to fuse with his skin. His fingers worked frantically at your folds, trying to spread the slick, petal-like labia wider to accommodate the sheer depth of his thrusts, but your anatomy was stubborn, possessive. The more he tried to pry you open, the more your inner walls seemed to curl inward, claiming him, wrapping around his cock like a living glove.
"Can't what, Bruce?" you whispered, your voice a sultry venom against his ear. You arched your back, pressing your pelvis up to meet his desperate drives, forcing him to bottom out against him. "Can't what? Can't stop? Can't resist? Or are you just realising that Gotham doesn't matter when you're buried deep inside something so much more real than your crusade?"
"Shut up," he growled, though there was no conviction in it, only a raw, animalistic need. His fingers dug into your hips, nails dragging against your skin as he fought to maintain some semblance of control. "You're manipulating me, this â this is a trap â gah, fuck â"
"It's not a trap if you keep coming back for more, sweetheart," you cooed, your hips rolling in a slow, grinding circle that forced his cock to scrape against every sensitive ridge of your inner sanctum. "Look at you. The great Batman, reduced to a fucking addict, begging for another taste of my poison."
Every thrust was punctuated by the wet, stifling sound of your nectar mixing with his pre-cum. The sound was obscene, a rhythmic slapping that filled the greenhouse as he drove himself into you. Each time his cock breached your pussy, it dragged more of that syrupy nectar up with it, coating his cock in a shimmering, poisonous sheen.
"You're losing it, Bruce," you teased, your nails raking down his spine, leaving faint red trails that mirrored the sting of your thorns. "I can feel your heartbeat through your cock â it's racing. You're not thinking about justice, nor the mission anymore. You're only thinking about how fucking good it feels to be consumed by me."
"I'm not â " he started, but the lie died as your cunt gave another constricting squeeze. His hips jerked forward involuntarily, his cock bottoming out against that sweet spot with enough force to make your vision blur. "Fuck, goddammit â "
"That's it. Give in to it, Bruce. Let the poison take hold."
His breathing was nothing more than broken staccato gasps now. The aphrodisiac was no longer just a scent; it was a physical weight in his lungs, making his head swim and his muscles twitch with involuntary pleasure.
The greenhouse seemed to warp around you both, the green shadows dancing like living things as the intensity reached a fever pitch. Bruce was simply drowning. His movements had lost their controlled precision, becoming something feral and desperate, each thrust a convulsive attempt to merge his very bones with yours. The obscene sounds of your coupling echoed off the glass walls, a lilting symphony of surrender.
"That's it, my brave little bat," you crooned, your voice dropping to a hypnotic murmur that cut through his haze. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him impossibly closer, forcing his cock to grind against your most sensitive depths. "Don't fight the tide â let it pull you under. There's no mission out there, Bruce. There's no Gotham; there's only this, there's only me."
His head hung forwards, a strangled moan tearing from his throat as your inner walls twitched again. Your gorgeous nectar, the sweet aphrodisiac, was flooding his bloodstream now, each thrust pumping more of your venom deep into his core. His eyes were rolled back, his jaw slack, his legendary willpower reduced to nothing but raw need.
"Fuck me harder," you commanded, your voice dripping with cruel sweetness as you arched your hips to meet every desperate lunge. "Break yourself against me. Show me how badly you need to be ruined."
"I need â I need you â " he gasped, his words slurred, his mind completely submerged in the narcotic haze you had created. âFuck, I need you sâbad â god ââ
Barely thinking anymore, he was merely reacting to your body's demands. The boundary between pain and pleasure had dissolved entirely.
Every time your inner petals scraped against his cock, the sting of the thorns sent jolts of electricity through his spine, mixing with the overwhelming sweetness of your nectar to create a sensory overload that shattered his last defences.
"Yes, Bruce, that's it â give it all to me â fill me up," you urged, your hips bucking upward in a frantic rhythm. You could feel the climax building in both of you a tidal wave of phytological corruption.Â
His cock pulsed greedily inside you, the head of it swollen and sensitive as it met the climax of your own orgasm. Your pussy gave one final, devastating contraction, the pitcher plant walls gripping down with such ferocity that it felt like your body was physically trying to extract his very soul.Â
Bruce's entire body stiffened as he surrendered completely. His hips bucked one last time, an uncontrolled lunge that buried him to the hilt as he came.
Thick ropes of cum flooded you, each pulse of his orgasm met by the metrical contractions of your pussy. You could feel him emptying himself into you, his cum mixing with the viscid nectar until you were a warm, flooded swamp of potent corruption. The pleasure was so intense it felt like being consumed from the inside out â the sweet venom of your body sealed the bond between you and him.
As your orgasm ebbed into waves of honeyed aftershocks, you could feel the sheer volume of him flooding your interior. His cum felt impossibly hot with every residing contraction dragging more of his essence into the deep well of your pussy, mixing it with your own syrupy nectar until you felt heavy with him.
"Oh god, Bruce..." you moaned, your voice thick with satisfaction as you felt him emptying himself. "You really did it â you gave me everything, attaboy."
You opened your eyes to find him staring down at you with intensely dilated pupils. His face was a mask of devastation â not from pain, but from the overwhelming sensory overload of the scene.
He looked wrecked, his jaw slack and his breathing nothing more than shallow, broken hitches that rattled in his chest.Â
"You're â you're insane," he managed to choke out, but there was no anger in it. His voice was a wrecked whisper, devoid of any conviction or sharpness.
He tried to form another word, to perhaps reclaim some shred of his dignity, but his brain seemed to have short circuited under the influence of your nectar. He simply couldn't process anything beyond the wet, heavy heat where you were still joined.
"I'm exactly what you need, honey,"
You could feel the way his cock still twitched inside you â especially at the finality of that sentence â desperate to stay connected even as the last of his strength ebbed away.
"You're so good at this, Bruce," you purred, tilting your head back to watch the way his sweat glistened in the moonlight. "Better than I expected. All that discipline, all that restraint â it makes the breaking so much sweeter, donât you think?â
He tried to respond, his lips parting as if to deliver some grim reprimand about the danger you posed, but all that came out was a broken, pathetic whimper. His hands, which usually held the fate of Gotham in their grip, now lay limp against the grass, fingers twitching uselessly.
He was completely untethered, adrift in the narcotic aftermath of your embrace.Â
With one final, shuddering convulsion of your inner muscles, the connection broke. Bruce slid out of you with a filthy quell, leaving you gaping and overflowing with a frothy mixture of his thick cum and your viscous nectar. The evidence of his utter surrender dribbled down your thighs in pearlescent streaks, coating your skin.
Bruce didn't even try to compose himself.
The moment he was free, his legs gave way as if his bones had turned to water. Collapsing forwards, he landed heavily on his knees between your thighs, his chest heaving in ragged, desperate gasps. He looked utterly messed â his hair matted with sweat, his expensive clothes ruined, his face pale and hollowed out by exhaustion.
Those dark, stormy eyes were gone, replaced by something far more dangerous: a hazed, glassy desperation that screamed of devoted addiction. He looked like a man who had stared into the abyss and found it tasted like heaven.
Before he could even attempt to crawl closer, you reached down, your fingers tangling roughly in his hair. You yanked his head back, forcing him to meet your gaze. You wanted him to see the triumph in your eyes, to see exactly what he had become.
"Not so fast, Bruce," you sneered, your voice dripping with condescension.
"Please," he rasped. The word was broken, pathetic. He wasn't the Dark Knight anymore; he was just a starving animal. His hands reached up to grasp at your wrists, not to pull them away, clawing at your skin as if seeking permission from a god. "Let me â please â let me taste you."
The desperation in his voice was absolutely delicious.
You stared down at him, savouring the sight of the world's most disciplined man reduced to a begging supplicant at your feet. His pupils were blown so wide they looked like black holes, swallowing the last remnants of his sanity.
You could see the way his throat worked as he swallowed hard, his nostrils flaring as he inhaled the cloying scent of your arousal that hung heavy in the humid greenhouse air.
"Look at you," you laughed, a cruel, melodic sound that echoed off the glass panes. "The great protector of Gotham, reduced to begging for scraps for pussy. Do you even remember who you are, Bruce â or is there nothing left but this hunger?"
"Nothing," he choked out instantly, his forehead dropping to rest against your inner thigh, pressing his face against the dripping heat. "I don't care about anything else. Just⊠please."
You watched him for a long moment, drinking up the way his shoulders trembled with restrained need. A cruel smile tugged at your lips as you finally released your grip on his hair, pushing his head down with the palm of your hand.
"Fine then, little bat," you purred, your voice dripping with mocking sweetness. "Drown in it. See if you can survive what you've asked for."
The instant you withdrew your hand, his control snapped. He came down on you like a man dying of thirst â swallowing the dark, reckless space you gave him and discovering that damnation tasted sweeter than anything heâd ever known.
pitcher plant â a passive hunter that lures prey with sweet, intoxicating nectar before dropping it into a pool of digestive fluid.
two main genera: nepenthes (tropical, hanging pitchers) and sarracenia (north american wetland, trumpet pitchers).
actually have an interesting relationship to bats â it acts like an acoustic dish, reflecting a batâs echolocation to lure it inside. the bat gets a safe roost; the plant gets fed by the its presence. deadfall for insects, sanctuary for the bat.
$ tag @twentytomidnight @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @hisokamywaifu @axtira @theall-seeingone
Summary: You get hit with a love spell. Naturally, the first person you seek out is Jason Todd.
Pairing: Jason Todd x gn!readerÂ
Word count: 4.5k
Warnings/tags: love spell (so potentially mild dubious consent but all the feelings are reciprocated), lovesick you, lovesick jason, repressed jason, LOTS of cuddling/lovie stuff, needles, magic, pining, happy ending.
the divider
Jason's having a good night.
He made himself an indulgent lasagna, and now he's got leftovers for tomorrow. He's off from patrol tonight, which, he must admit, was nice of Cass to offer.
Yeah, Jason actually feels pretty normal. Feels like any young person would. Hell, he might put on a movie he won't pay attention to, or finally adopt a cat, just to keep the normal streak going. That's what young folks do, right?
(He can think of some other things young people do, things that Jason won't allow himself to dream of.)
Knock knock.
Jason sighs. Well. The streak was good while it lasted.
He gets up, shuffling over in his sweats. He undoes the four locks and opens the door to reveal... you.
"Uh, hey," he says, cracking the door wider. "Everything okay?"
It's late. You shouldn't be out now, even if the sun hasn't gone down yet.
Jason frowns when you sway in the doorway and don't respond.
Then you flash him the sweetest smile he's ever been on the receiving end of. Wow. Sure, Jason's seen you flash your pretty teeth before. But not like this. And not at him.
"Hi, Jaylove. Hi."
"Uh." He watches you walk right past him, into his apartment. He shuts the door. "Hi... What's goin' on? You alright?"
You turn to face him. "Why wouldn't I be? After all, you're here."
"What?"
You walk to him and take his hands in yours. Jason's eyebrows rise.
"Hey...?" Jason says, looking at your joined hands. You lace your fingers together.
"My prince," you say happily. "Your eyes are beautiful. Like emeralds. And you have a beautiful mouth. Your whole face is beautiful. I'd like to paint you."
"Are you on drugs?" Jason releases your hands to hold your face. He gently pushes your eyelids up to inspect your pupils. You just smile.
"I feel high when you touch me," you say. "Just being near you is drug enough."
Yeah, Jason's now feeling a healthy amount of paranoia. It's not that you don't stop by or that you're not nice. No, you're the sweetest creature Jason's ever had the pleasure of meeting.
But wanting to touch him? Thinking he's beautiful? Calling him your prince? Either you're drugged or he's died again and found paradise.
Then again, he probably wouldn't still be in Gotham if this were paradise. You'd definitely be here, though.
"Right. Your eyes are fine." Jason lets go of your face. "You sure you didn't take anything? Drink anything? Run into anyone?"
"I drank tea," you say, gazing up at him. "And I petted a fat orange cat. Don't you want a cat?"
"I surely do. You drank tea?"
"Mmhm. It was almost as amazing as you."
Jason nods and takes your hand. "Okay. We're going to the Cave."
"How come?" you ask, but you don't protest as he leads you out and into the elevator.
"Because I wanna make sure you're okay," he says, pushing the button labeled one. You're definitely not okay, but he doesn't want to worry you.
"Oh." You lean against Jason's arm. He stiffens and looks down at you. You just burrow into his side. "'Cause you love me?"
Breath catches in his throat. You can't mean that. Do you even know what you're saying? No, impossible.
You look up when he's silent for too long. "Jay-Jay? Didja hear me?"
"Yeah," he says slowly. "Yeah, I did."
You look at him, big eyes sweet. "Don't you love me too? I love you."
Jason swallows hard. "I, um, don't think you're in your right mind."
Your lip quivers. Oh, God. No, please don't cry, please don'tâ
"You don't love me?" you ask, tears welling.
"I do love you," Jason says quickly, panicking at your distress. "I do. Shit. Please don't cry, honey. I do love you."
You frown, cheeks wet. "You're just saying that! You hate me!"
Jason shakes his head. "No, no! Oh, never, I could never hate ya, honest! I was just... um, this is the first time we've said it to each other, y'know? I do love you. Have for a long time now."
He strokes your cheek with his thumb, soaking up your tears. You sniffle but accept this, nodding.
"Oh. I'm sure I've told you that I love you before. I love you so much, Jason. I'll never love anyone the way I love you."
God, this is fucking torture. As the elevator reaches the ground floor, Jason takes a deep breath, lets you link your fingers with his, and leads you out to the street. The universe is intent in never granting him a normal night. Noted.
There's no way you're in your right mind. Jason's figured this from the start. But that doesn't make the way you look at him, like he's anybody worth looking at, any less painful.
He pulls out his phone, shoots a quick text to Dick. ETA 10 min.
Dick responds two seconds later. What's up?
Possible Code 12.
Jason pockets his phone, running through potential reasons for what did this to you. Ivy's not wreaking havoc tonight, as far as he knows.
Meanwhile, you're in another world, humming and holding his hand. Jason's thought about this many times, holding your hand and taking you for rides, you adoring him, hugging him, kissing him. He's nothing if not a masochist.
"Okay, sweetheart," Jason says, and you immediately turn to him, like a flower showing its face to the sun. Jason is no one's sun, though. He's more like the worm under your boot.
"Hm?" you ask, stroking his arm. Jason does his best to be normal about it.
"We're gonna, um, go to the Cave. You okay on my bike?"
You glance at his bike, and there's a tinge of apprehension on your face. Jason reaches for your shoulder, stops, then forces himself to touch you. You're not going to recoil from him, not in this state. And he's not doing it for himself; he's only touching you so that you'll let him take you to the Manor and figure out what's what.
He's not a bastard for holding your shoulder, right? He's doing it just so that you'll be safe.
(It doesn't matter. Jason knows he's a bastard for being in your life at all.)
You lean into him when he touches your shoulder.
"Never been on your bike, Jay," you say.
"I know. But I swear to you that you're safe. You know I'd never let anything happen to you, right? Never."
You nod. "Yeah. You always look out for me. 'S part of why I love you so much."
Good God. Jason's going to be a ball of self-hatred for the next millenia over this.
He puts his spare helmet on you, helping you fit the chin guard underneath.
"Okay?" he asks.
You give him a thumbs-up. Jason smiles and puts his own helmet on.
"You gotta hold on real tight, okay? As tight as you can. Don't worry 'bout hurting me."
"Mmkay!"
He helps you mount the bike first, then follows. As soon as he's on, you wrap your arms around his middle and smush your helmet into his back.
How long has he dreamed about this? Taking you on late-night rides, feeling you pressed against him, squealing as he floats through traffic (he'd never speed the way he does when he's alone; Jason doesn't give a shit about his own body, but your safety matters).
"The bike is loud, so I'm not gonna hear you if you say something, but if you want me to stop, tap my shoulder three times, okay?"
"Okay, Jaylove." You squeeze him in what's clearly a hug. "Ready."
Jason's not sure he is. It's been a long time since anyone's touched him, much less someone he's head over heels for. You're so trusting, it makes him ache. Jason's just glad he's the first jerk you laid your eyes upon instead of the magic you're under pushing you into the arms of someone dangerous.
He starts up his bike. Jason's had guests on his bike before, mostly his brothers and, once, the old lady who runs the tea shop down the block.
He's never had a lovely thing like you snuggled up to him, clinging to him. Jason feels rabid. He feels like he needs to be shot and put out of his misery.
He follows all of the road rules so you won't be scared. You don't tap his shoulder or shake, so Jason figures you're fine. He's good. He's being good for you.
Jason slows as he goes down the ramp to the Cave entrance. He stops at the mouth of the Cave and dismounts first, pulling off his helmet.
"You alright in there?" he asks, offering his hand.
You wrap your arms around his neck and Jason wobbles as he recalibrates and snakes an arm around your shoulders instead and helps you off that way. He removes your helmet. You blink at the new light, then look at him, moony-eyed once again.
"I was kinda scared," you admit. "But I trust you, Jaybee. Always."
"Got you here in one piece, didn't I?" he says, winking at you.
"Uh-huh!"
Jason sees what you're going to do before you try. He sees the way you look at his lips, how you rear back, ready to leap and kiss him.
He redirects you immediately, preferring that to making you cry again. He hates it when you cry. Your soft mouth lands on his jaw instead.
Jason smiles, strained. You're annoyed at the fact that you missed, and Jason can see that you're about to try again when Dick and Tim come into view.
He's never been more thrilled to see his brothers.
"Fellow bretheren," Jason says. He knows his voice is thin. "Funny seein' you here."
You're briefly distracted and wave to be polite. But then you force Jason's left ear to your level and catch the lobe between your teeth.
Holy fuck. Jason nearly buckles at the sensation. He's never understood the ears as an erogenous zone beforeânow he gets it. He's ashamed of how heat pools in his gut as you nip his ear.
Jason balances you with an arm around your waist, gingerly trying to both hide his reaction and separate you. He accomplishes neither. Tim's eyebrows are at his hairline; Dick's mouth is open, no doubt ready to make a smart-ass comment.
"Well, it's nice to see you two so... affectionate," Dick says, holding back a grin.
Jason rolls his eyes. "I need you to run tests. They showed up to my door like this, all over me."
"Yeah, that is weird," Tim says.
"Thank you very much for that, Timbit," Jason grumbles. You kiss under his ear and weave your fingers through his hair. Jason manages to get your hands off, but your mouth is still firmly planted on his neck. He clears his throat. Normal!
"I dunno, Jason," Dick says. "It's not that weird. People fall in love every day."
And, okay. Jason can do teasing. He can even do borderline psychotic remarks. That's part of having siblings. He's made a few in his day. They've all stabbed or shot each other.
But now Dick is just being cruel.
Jason scowls. "Take their blood so we can fucking get this over with. They're clearly under a love spell."
His scathing tone surprises Dick, but it really startles you. You've moved away from his ear (Jason is both relieved and disappointed) and return to cradling his arm. You're alarmed by his reply.
"Jaylove?" you ask. "What happened? Are you mad?"
Jaylove? Jason sees Tim mouth. He forces himself to focus on you, be gentle for you.
"Hm, no, not mad at ya, sweetheart. Sorry 'bout that. But we need to run some medical tests on ya, 'kay? Can we do that?"
"Sure," you chirp, linking your arm with his.
Dick and Tim slip into Work Mode. Jason appreciates that. His nerves are frayed. He senses a self-destructive episode coming on after you're cured. Maybe he'll throw himself into a bar fight tonight.
"Symptoms?" Tim asks, going to the computer.
"Being in love with me," Jason says dryly.
"Besides that. Any physical symptoms like dizziness or nausea? Recklessness?"
"No, didn't notice any sickness. Not reckless; they did everything I said." Jason swallows, says the next part quietly, fearfully. "Probably jump into the Hudson if I asked."
Tim nods sharply. Dick prepares to draw your blood. Again, you're apprehensive. But Jason soothes you, pets you, and you're leaning into him like a cat in its favorite patch of sun as Dick takes your blood.
"I wanna get married," you say as red fills the second vial.
Dick shoots him a sympathetic look. Jason looks away.
"Soon, honey," Jason says, ignoring how his stomach's a pit.
He didn't think about love or relationships when he came back. Didn't care, not when he had revenge to plot.
But after all that was over, after he met you, after he found a reason to keep living, Jason started thinking about it.
And what he realized is that he's never getting married.
By choice? Yes, sure. Jason loves pretending he has a choice in anything. Sure, he chooses to abstain from marriage, like normal people out there do. But really, he avoids attachment because it wouldn't be fair to anyone. He knows he's not made for that. His death made him unsalvageable. It's a miracle he's here at all. How dare he ask for more?
And inside, he chokes on a vine of hatred for everyone else who can find someone. Who's capable of loving and being loved. It even, to Jason's shame, has reared its head at you, whispered in his ear about how you're not damaged, so of course you'll find someone one day. Of course you'll leave him eventually. It would be stupid of him to hope otherwise.
"When?" you ask as Dick starts on the third vial. You don't even notice. Dick could probably drain you dry as long as Jason's in front of you. "When can we get married?"
"How 'bout next month?" Jason says without thinking. He would. He'd marry you tomorrow.
You think about this for a moment, then nod. "Yes, that would be good. I've always wanted a fall wedding."
"Yeah? I always liked the idea of marrying in the spring. All the flowers."
"No," you say. "Pollen's out. You'd be sneezing your head off."
Jason laughs, then wants to cry, because you know that he's allergic to pollen.
"Yeah, y'right," he says, voice thick. "Fall wedding's better."
"Alright, all done!" Dick says, forcefully cheerful. He removes the needle and puts a Bandaid on the inside of your elbow. You rest your head on Jason's arm. Jason tries not to boil himself in a fire of misery. You probably won't even remember this.
Dick watches you both, then tugs your hand. "Hey, you mind helping me fill out some info? For the tests."
Your mouth shrivels. You look at Jason, and he can't believe he's your North Star, magic or not.
"I don't wanna leave Jason," you say.
"He'll be right here," Dick says quickly. "Won't leave your sight for a second. But I need your help."
"Just for a minute?" you ask.
Dick nods. "One minute."
You sigh and turn to Jason. "I'll be right back."
Jason nods, tries to smile. "Sure. I'll be here."
He'll be here. Forever and ever and ever...
Wait a second. Tea. Jason jolts.
"Tim. They said they drank tea. Could be something there."
"On it," Tim says. "Dick, we need a mouth swab."
"Right." He turns to you. "Can Iâ"
"No," you say, and march back to Jason. "You said a minute."
Jason would laugh at the pout on your face, the way you plop yourself next to him and curl around him like he's a new toy. He would laugh. If he could find the humor.
Dick looks at him. Jason sighs.
"Honey?" You hum. "We just need one more test, yeah? Q-tip on your tongue. Not the most pleasant, but it'll be quick. Promise."
"Okay," you say immediately, hugging his arm.
Jason knows it's a spell, or maybe a lab-made chemical. But he's still awed by how quickly you acquiesce. How you show no worry when Dick approaches because Jason's right there, patting your hand.
Dick swabs your mouth. You cough three times after, most of your body on Jason.
"Interesting how they're not lustful," Dick says.
"What," Jason says.
"Okay, the ear thing was..." Dick shrugs. "But it's not mindless. It's actually the most reasonable love spell I've ever seen. Like, their desires for you don't feel manufactured, they feelâ"
"Don't," Jason snaps. "Don't fuckin' say it."
Dick holds up his hands. "It was just an observation. You've seen Ivy's pollen doses. This one seems different."
"Fine. Ivy's taking a break from the orgies. Doesn't mean this is real."
Jason's not stupid enough to hope.
"It can't be Ivy," Tim says, and Jason almost startles. He forgot Tim was there, so wrapped up in you. "No reports of Ivy attacks. And the substance, whatever it was, wasn't inhaled. It was injested."
You wrap your arms around Jason's neck and smush your face against his. You're warm and smell good. Jason feels feral.
He holds you with a hand on your back, mind turning.
"Sweetheart," he says. You hum. "You said you drank tea after work. Where exactly did you go?"
"Dunno," you say, spacey. "Went into a tea shop that's never been there before. And an old lady invited me in. She said I looked so sad. And I was, Jaybee! How did she know?"
"I don't know, honey," Jason says quietly, even though he has a suspicion. He's never letting you walk home alone again.
Tea shop. That's what he gets for trying to be a good Samaritan. How dare she drug you?
"Hm. Well, she gave me a tea sample, said it would make all my problems disappear. Then I petted her cat named Darcy. Like that book you like!"
God, Jason just wants to hug you tight and kiss your face. It's awful of him to think of you as cute in your state, he knows.
"Track their routes," Jason says. "They take two different ones home. One crosses Bank Street, the other goes over the bridge."
"I'd call you a stalker but I really have no right," Tim says, fingers flying over the keyboard.
"No shit," Jason mumbles, letting you play with his fingers.
"Jason," Dick says quietly. He glances at you, then at his brother. "If it's too much, we can sedate them."
"No. We don't know how it'll react to the tea. It's not Ivy's brew."
Dick frowns. He knows Jason's right. Jason knows he's right.
"Okay, I got something. Magic signatures from a building on Tenth Street," Tim says. "And I think I'm onto an antidote."
"I'll check it out," Dick says, going to suit up. He looks at Jason. "Are you-?"
Jason nods. "I'm fine. Go."
So Dick does. Tim is able to make an antidote within the hour. He gives it to Jason who injects it into your neck. He feels guilty even though this is whatâll cure you. You wince at the pinch but you don't so much as whimper, endlessly trusting.
"They'll probably crash soon," Tim says, out of your earshot. "I don't know if you should risk the bike."
Jason sighs. Tim's right, and it makes him all the more agitated that his brothers have been helpful and even kind of nice during the whole thing.
You're going to crash soon. Jason has no choice but to bring you up to the Manor.
"Come on, sweetheart," he says, taking your hand and standing.
"Where're we goin'?" you ask, yawning.
"Goinâ tâbed, honey. Aren't ya tired?"
"Hmm. Mmhmm."
"Yeah, thought so."
Jason leads you up the stairs and out of the Cave. He helps keep you steady as you trip up the stairs. He's tempted to just carry you, but he feels like that might be overkill.
Once at the top of the stairs, Jason stops. Swallows.
He hasn't been up here in a while. He slept in his room once after he returned, after a nasty encounter with Scarecrow.
"Wanna sleep in your bed, Jay," you mumble, cheek against his arm.
Jason sighs. "Yeah. Okay, love."
You go to his room. It's clean, as usualâAlfred never let it get dusty. Jason had hoped that if you ever saw his room it would be in much different circumstances. Normal circumstances.
But, well. Here you are.
"Hmm, 's nice," you say as Jason pulls back the bedspread and helps you out of your shoes. You start to take off your pants and he panics.
"Uh! Uh, baby, maybe keep the pants on. You might get cold."
You frown in confusion. "Doesn't feel cold."
"Yeah, but, whew, Alfred blasts the AC! Jus' keep 'em on."
Jason cannot handle seeing you in your underwear. He draws the line there.
"'Kay," you say, and flop onto the sheets. You wiggle around, getting comfortable.
Jason sits in the fat armchair in the corner of the room. Immediately, you sit up.
"Why're you over there?" you ask, eyes wide.
Oh, boy.
"Oh. I was, um, gonna read for a bit. I'll come in in a while."
Your lip trembles. Noâ
"Don't leave me, Jaybee. Don't leave! Stay with me. I love you!"
Jason rubs his forehead. "Honeyâ"
"You hate me! You do! I annoy you." Tears gather in your eyes.
Jason hurries to the edge of his bed, climbing in in his jeans and socked feet.
"No, no, love, we covered this. I don't hate ya, hm? Where'd ya get a silly thing like that?"
You quiet as he scoots in beside you. Then you throw most of your limbs over him. Jason stiffens.
"Just got scared," you say, and kiss his chest. "Promise you won't leave?"
Jason breathes in. Breathes out.
"Yeah. I promise."
And he stays.
You wake up with a faint headache and a dry throat. Sunlight peeks through the blinds. You feel warm and safe and well-rested, despite the slight pains.
You stretch, expecting air. Instead, you touch skin. You open your eyes.
Oh. You're in a bedroom.
No, scratch that. You see framed pictures of the Bats, books on shelves.
You're in Jason Todd's childhood bedroom. With the aforementioned tucked under your arm and leg.
You jerk away so hard, you land on the carpeted floor below.
Jason's up instantly, head poking over the bed. His eyes widen.
"Shit! Y'alright? C'mere."
He gets up and practically scoops you into a standing position. Your brain short-circuits: big strong man strong big good nice. Then you recover.
"Um," you say. "Uh. Hmm. Hi."
Jason smiles tightly. "Hey."
"What... how-?"
"Right. How much do you remember?"
You try to think. You remember walking home, drinking tea, an affectionate orange cat. You remember hands on your face and your stomach swooping on a motorcycle and a gentle voice. So gentle.
"You were magicked," Jason says quickly. "It was a, uh, tea shop. Dick's checking it out. You, um, came to me and I took you here and you got an antidote and you didn't want me to, um, leave. So, yeah. Sorry."
You tilt your head. "Why are you apologizing, Jason?"
He sighs. "Just 'cause."
You have no idea what that means. But you feel like Jason's telling you a very condensed version of what happened.
"What was the magic?" you ask.
He winces. "Love spell. You thought you were... in love with me."
Jason says it like he's the one who charmed you. Like he's ashamed of it.
"Oh," you say. Well, you certainly didn't need a spell for that to happen.
"Yeah." Jason's staring at your and his shoes by the door. "But everything's fine now. I can take you home. Dick and Tim'll take care of the tea shop witch."
He doesn't wait for a response, darting to the door. You rush forward and close the door as Jason opens it. He looks at you in confusion.
"Jason," you say softly. "What happened?"
"Whaddya mean? I told you."
"Jason. I've known you for three years. You think I don't know when you're not telling me something?"
He looks at his feet. One of his socks has a hole in the toe.
"There's nothin' to tell," he mumbles. "Magic stuff. Happens all the time. Business as usual."
You frown. "I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable, Jay. I admittedly don't remember a lot."
Jason's expression is relief but there's a heaviness to his shoulders. "Well, 's for the best, really. Magic messes with your head."
"Did I make you uncomfortable, Jason? Not letting you leave andâGod, I can't imagine how I was on the spell."
He shakes his head fervently. "No! No, no, my God, no. You didn'tâyou could neverâI mean, I wasn't... fuck. No. You didn't make me uncomfortable."
"If you're sure," you say.
He nods. "Hundred percent."
Jason doesn't sound like he's lying. You're pretty good at detecting it, especially when it comes to his feelings.
So why is he acting weird?
Well, duh. A love spell. You probably freaked him out, especially since you really do love him.
"I hope we can still be friends," you offer.
Jason turns to the door.
"Yeah," he says quietly. "'Course we're still friends."
It shouldn't make you ache. Jason's perfectly in the right to not reciprocate how you feel. How can he reciprocate something he doesnât even know exists?
"You, uh..." Jason scratches the back of his neck. He faces you once more. "You said last night that you were sad. When you were coming home. I just wanted to say, y'know... you can talk to me. 'Bout anything."
This will make all of your problems disappear, she had said. It'd tasted like kombuchaâyou hadn't had a lot of faith.
Jason begins to open the door. You slide in front of him and slam the door shut with your back. He steps back in surprise.
"Whâ"
"I have to tell you something!" you blurt.
Jason stills. "Okay."
"I adopted you a cat," you say.
He squints. "What?"
"Well, she's still at the shelter but I put her on reserve. Of a sort. I have a friend who works there. She's black and white and likes to cuddle and has two different colored eyes but she can't see very well. Her name is... whatever you want to name her. Because she's yours. And I think you'll love her."
He nods slowly. "I, uh, thanks. Thank you. I was thinking about adopting aâ"
"I was sad last night because I kept thinking about how you're gonna love this cat I got you but you'll never love me, and how that's the fucking worst feeling in the world."
You've stunned him silent. Shit.
Seconds tick by. A minute. Two minutes.
"Okay," you say, wanting to jump out of Jason's two-story window. "I'm gonna go drop off the face of the Earth now. Bye."
You open the door. Jason closes it by caging you against it.
And then he kisses you.
Jason pours everything into the kiss. He's not a perfect kisser but it's good. It's magic. He holds your face completely, shuts out the entire world. Kisses the breath out of you.
Yes, you could go on. It's fantastic. It's fireworks. It's sunbeams.
And actually, it feels like the most normal thing in the world, kissing Jason Todd.
Bruce Wayne x Reader
Warnings: Alcohol, fem! reader, drunk reader, age gap (Reader 20s, Bruce late 30s/early 40s), impaired consent, mentions of sex but none acted upon, oddly fluffy for once with him. MDNI.
Bruce Wayne who refuses to bring you back to the manor when you're tipsy.
Not because he's embarrassed of you. If anything, Bruce rather likes picking you up from whatever bar your coworkers decided to host happy hour at, finding you leaning against the counter with your purse open in front of you, squinting into the darkness like you might summon your credit card eventually if you just stare hard enough. He slips his coat around your shoulders before you can protest. Yours stays neatly folded over one of his arms. You complain all you want that you aren't cold while your fingers continue digging through your purse, and Bruce merely stands beside you, one hand in his trouser pocket as he watches you struggle. By the time your fingers finally close triumphantly around your card, his hand reaches over and plucks it neatly from your hand.
"I already settled the tab."
"Then why did I spend so much time doing that? Huh? Bruce."
His blue eyes drop to yours, amusement flashes in them while you throw a tiny fit over all the time you'd apparently wasted.
"I told you I was paying."
"Then why didn't you remind me, Mr. Wayne?"
"I did," he counters, one brow lifting as that polished little playboy smile threatens at the corner of his mouth. "Twice, actually. You were too drunk to notice."
Which is exactly why the manor is off-limits. He doesn't trust himself enough with how pliant you become under the influence. How tempting you'd look sprawled across his bed with half-lidded eyes blinking up at him, letting him rearrange you however he pleased simply because your body feels heavier and softer with alcohol. A pretty lamb for the slaughter placed directly in front of a man who already struggles far too much with wanting to reach for it.
Picking you up is one thing. Having you folded against his side in the passenger seat while he drives you home is another.
You spend most of the ride leaning across the center console, cheek pressed against his arm while you ramble about workplace gossip Bruce only half understands. Someone stole someone else's lunch. Someone else heated tuna in the workroom, of all things. Apparently Deborah is still a "raging bitch and keeps calling you out in front of the team in this really passive-aggressive email chain," which you explain with all the seriousness you could muster while whining, loudly, against his shoulder. Bruce hums along, occasionally glancing down at you before returning his attention to the road. One large hand stays steady on the wheel, and the other rests loosely over the gearshift, mostly because you've decided his wrist makes an excellent anchor whenever the car turns.
Your fingers don't stay there long. They slide across his thigh instead, drawing slow little circles through the fabric of his trousers, then hearts, and Bruce's grip tightens around the gearshift before he can stop it.
Then your hand wanders higher.
Bruce's jaw tightens the second your palm settles over his lap and gives the hard outline beneath his trousers a firm little squeeze, his hips shifting before he can stop them.
It would be disgustingly easy to pull into the truck stop glowing ahead, put the car in park, kiss his way down your neck while you giggle beneath him and move you into the back seat just to show you exactly what all that touching gets you. Have you whining and clinging to those broad shoulders until you forget tonight entirely.
Bruce exhales slowly through his nose, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek as his eyes stay stubbornly fixed on the road ahead.
No.
He knows better.
"Behave," he drawls, that low voice coming out a touch rougher than usual.
He's more annoyed with himself for reacting so easily than he is with you. His hand leaves the gearshift and closes gently around your wrist, his palm nearly engulfing it as he lifts your hand away from his lap and returns it to the safer territory of his thigh. You raise your head with a pout that borders dangerously close to a scowl, and Bruce dips his blue eyes toward you for half a second before returning them to the road.
You can be cute.
Occasionally.
"I am behaving," you mumble, immediately letting your hand creep right back.
Bruce feels your fingers brush over him again, only now you've graduated from tracing to slowly stroking him through his pants.
"I just wanna touch it," you whisper, words beginning to drag together as you pet the straining shape through the fabric. "Just for a little..."
He catches your hand before you can get any more ambitious.
"Of course you do."
Bruce raises your knuckles to his mouth and presses a slow kiss there, the faint scrape of evening stubble brushing your skin before he places your hand firmly back into your own lap. This time, he keeps his palm over it for several seconds, thumb sweeping once across your knuckles.
At red lights, though, he allows himself smaller indulgences. His hand slides beneath your chin, warm and rather large, the roughened pad of his thumb brushing slowly over your cheek. You've asked him before why a billionaire has hands like that. He never gives you a real answer. You turn toward him with that soft, unfocused smile you never give him sober.
"Kiss?"
He's teasing, mostly.
That doesn't stop him.
Normally, you'd humor him with a quick kiss on the cheek and leave him wanting more. Bruce has learned not to push his luck. Tonight, though, you lean in before he even finishes asking.
It's messy. Your nose bumps his and you miss his mouth entirely the first time, kissing the corner instead before dissolving into giggles against his cheek. Bruce's eyes close briefly as your laughter warms his skin, and the sound pulls a crooked smile from him before he can hide it
"Come here."
His fingers tighten lightly beneath your jaw and guide you back, your lips finding his properly this time. His thumb settles near your ear while the other four fingers curl along your neck. Even then, Bruce keeps it brief, indulging you for only a few seconds before pulling away when you chase his mouth again. Green light spills through the windshield, washing over the blue of his eyes when they open.
"Greedy."
Mostly to himself, but apparently you take it to heart by the way you pout quietly against his shoulder.
By the time he parks outside your building, you're halfway asleep against his arm. He switches off the engine and sits there for a moment, looking down at the weight of your head against him. Bruce looks at you for a second too long before getting out of the car.
"Come on."
You make a noise suggesting you have absolutely no intention of doing anything of the sort, so Bruce circles the car instead. The moment he opens your door and reaches for you, your body folds bonelessly toward him, and he barely gets one arm around your waist before you sag completely into his chest.
"Bruce."
"Mm?"
Your cheek squishes against the broad expanse of his chest as you blink miserably up at him.
"My legs stopped working."
Your statement is quickly answered in one swift movement. One arm hooks beneath your knees while the other braces around your back, and you make a tiny delighted sound when he lifts you. You're immediately curling into his chest while Bruce shoulders the car door shut, your heels dangling from two fingers of his free hand and clinking softly together beneath you.
Your head drops beneath his chin during the walk inside, his cologne faded enough that you mostly smell Bruce underneath it. By the time he reaches the elevator, you've already started sliding lower in his arms, so he adjusts you higher against his chest with a quiet sigh.
The elevator doors open to reveal a young couple already inside. Bruce steps in, presses your floor with one knuckle, and offers them the same polite nod he would anyone else while you softly sing something into his shirt. One of your heels slips against his knuckles, and he catches it before it falls, long fingers easily gathering both shoes again. The couple glance at him, then at you, then at him again.
"Is that Bruce Wayne?" one of them whispers.
Bruce stares ahead.
Thirty seconds.
He can survive thirty seconds.
You lift your head, blinking blearily at absolutely nothing before your gaze finally settles on the couple. Bruce leans closer, his mouth nearly brushing your ear.
"Give them a wave."
You brighten immediately, your hand emerging from beneath his coat to wave far too enthusiastically at them. Bruce has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep his expression straight, but there's no hiding the faint crinkle beside his blue eyes.
It isn't fun playing the serious man all the time.
At your apartment, he shifts you higher against one hip and digs through your purse with his other hand.
"No snooping," you mumble. "I keep all my possessions in there."
"I bought you this purse and pay your rent. I'm allowed to snoop."
"Still, it's the principle."
Bruce simply nods, despite the smile gracing his face as he looks away.
"Understood."
The second your feet touch the apartment floor, you make for the fridge. Bruce catches the cheap bottle of wine before you do.
"One glass? Might as well since you're here, you know?" You bait.
"No."
"Half?"
Bruce removes his coat from around your shoulders and hangs it over the back of a chair, giving you one flat look over his shoulder.
"Water."
That shuts you up for approximately three seconds while he saunters off toward the bathroom to turn on the shower, knowing full well it'll take exactly eight minutes for the hot water to actually work.
The shower is cramped enough that Bruce has to turn sideways just to pull the curtain closed, his shoulders nearly brushing either wall as your shampoo bottles knock against his elbow when he reaches for one. He catches it before it tumbles and pours some into his palm.
"Turn."
You obey with surprising seriousness, and Bruce works the shampoo into your hair, thick fingers massaging slowly against your scalp while you continue talking about your friends, your job, a dog you saw earlier, and how unfairly handsome he is. You sway once, and his hand immediately catches your hip.
"Careful."
"I'm standing."
His eyes drop pointedly to your feet before lifting back to your face.
"Barely."
He guides you beneath the spray, one palm cupping the back of your head while the other shields your eyes from the suds. Water flattens his dark hair against his forehead, making the silver strands more obvious now.
You blink water from your lashes and squint up at him.
"You're really pretty."
His hands pause.
"Pretty?"
You reach up and poke the crease between his brows.
"You'd be prettier if you stopped doing that. You'll get wrinkles."
Bruce catches your hand before you can poke him again; he presses his mouth against the inside of your wrist. Once. Twice. Then a third little kiss because you're watching him with such open fondness that it makes his chest pull tight.
"Noted."
Your cheek finds his chest while Bruce rocks the two of you slowly side to side beneath the water, his chin briefly resting against the top of your head. Soap trails down between you until you eventually tilt your face up expectantly.
Bruce looks down.
One chaste kiss.
Then another against your forehead.
Afterward, Bruce wraps you in the largest towel you own. He guides you toward the closed toilet lid with both palms settled around your hips.
"Sit."
"I can stand."
You sway.
Bruce catches you under the arms before gravity can prove otherwise. His expression doesn't change.
"Sit."
You sit.
He crouches in front of you and dries your legs while you attempt to tell him something extremely important about your coworker's divorce. By the time you're in pajamas, you're brushing your teeth with one hand and pointing toward the kitchen with the other.
"I could still have wine."
Bruce watches toothpaste foam gather at the corner of your mouth.
"You could."
You brighten.
"You won't."
Your expression falls immediately.
You rinse your mouth, step out of the bathroom, and nearly walk directly into the doorframe. Bruce catches your elbow and redirects you without breaking stride.
"Convincing argument."
On the couch, he pours you water instead.
At first, you sit beside him. Then your legs creep across his lap. Five minutes later, you've somehow rotated sideways, and another five after that you're crawling completely on top of him, settling your entire weight against his chest like that had been the plan from the beginning. Bruce doesn't comment. He merely adjusts beneath you, one broad shoulder sinking deeper into the couch before his arm circles your waist and draws you securely against him, your cheek finding the hollow beneath his collarbone while your fingers occasionally play with the hairs on his chest.
Some movie you'd been talking about for weeks plays quietly across the room, although you spend most of it interrupting important scenes to explain things Bruce could have understood perfectly well himself. He doesn't stop you. He strokes his thumb slowly along your back instead, kisses your temple whenever you tilt your face toward him, and quietly takes the water glass from your hand when your fingers start going slack around it.
Bruce glances at the clock over your shoulder.
10:03.
Another twenty minutes and you'll be completely out. Plenty of time to get you into bed and still make patrol.
At 10:11, you're still explaining the movie. At 10:17, you stop halfway through a sentence.
Bruce looks down.
Your breathing has evened out, mouth slightly open against his skin, one fist loosely curled into the fabric of the blanket. His hand stills against your back. For a moment, Bruce just looks at you
Then they shift toward the window.
Toward the dark Gotham skyline beyond it. You need him, and so does she.
He slips one arm beneath your knees and the other behind your back. You stir when he lifts you, forehead bumping softly beneath his jaw.
"Bruce?"
His hold tightens instinctively.
"I'm here."
That seems to satisfy you, your head dropping back against his shoulder.
That's why he brings you here.
Not the manor. Definitely not his bedroom, where the bed is big enough for every bad decision Bruce spent the drive refusing to make.
Your apartment is much safer.
Mostly because he hates your mattress, a full-sized bed you'd somehow managed to cram into your one-bedroom apartment in downtown Gotham, where Bruce has to turn sideways just to maneuver around the bedroom and not end up bruised.
He lowers you carefully onto the patterned sheets, but your hand immediately catches his sleeve, causing him to stop for a beat. His eyes soften as he gently pries your fingers loose one at a time and tucks your hand beneath the blanket, then pulls the covers higher around your shoulders. His phone buzzes quietly in his pocket.
Patrol.
He checks the time, then sets an alarm.
3:00 a.m.
Enough time to finish what needs doing and return before you inevitably wake up needing to pee, throw up, drink half the sink, or start drunkenly wondering where he went.
Bruce bends down, one hand braced against the bed beside your head, and presses one kiss into your hair, then another against your forehead.
By morning, you'll be miserable.
Bruce already knows the routine. Water waiting on the nightstand. Painkillers beside it. Breakfast ordered before you're fully awake.
And when you finally crack one eye open and groan at the sunlight, he'll already be beside you again, hair slightly disheveled from patrol and brushing yours away from your face and kissing your forehead like he hadn't spent half the night questioning whether he should just offer to move you into his place.
Summary: You get a little frisky in a matinee with your boyfriend. Well, a lot frisky. Can they blame you? Itâs Dickie.
Warnings: pwp, semi-public sex, handjob, hero name kink?, dick worship (pun intended)
A/n: Iâve had a rough week and I NEED to give this man a handjob. For some reason my period is making me horny af
Itâs dark in the theater, and because itâs 3pm on a Monday, thereâs no one else in the theater. Well, except that one guy who sat up in the very front. You and Dick, being people of culture, took the back row.
Itâs nice. You know how (relatively) nice theater seats are now, essentially being those little recliners with the middle you can move to make it a loveseat. Youâve nestled your head in the crook of Dickâs neck, and he leans on you, practically purring like a cat.
You donât know what youâre watching. You havenât paid attention the entire time and you wonât be anytime soon. Youâve got one thing on your mind: Dick. Both capitalized and uncapitalized.
Youâve never done anything like this in a public place before, but hey, thereâs a first time for everything. The theater is dark, the movie is loud, and youâre feeling bold.
You drifted your hand to the place between Dickâs legs, watching as he feigned nonchalance.
You cupped his package through his jeans. You looked back up at him. He just stared blankly ahead, trying really hard to pay attention. You donât know why heâs still trying. That movie? Boring. This? Much more interesting.
You continued groping him, gently feeling and squeezing. He was getting stiffer as you traced the tip of your finger over the outline of his cock through the fabric. You lingered over the tip, delicately drawing a spiral over it. Dickâs breath hitched.
You gave a gentle pat to his inner thigh, bumping against his cock again as you pulled your hand back to your own side of the chair. You pretended to go back to watching the movie, just to make him squirm.
Sure enough, after a moment, Dick shifted in his seat, casually making a bit more room for an uncomfortable erection.
You thought about feigning disinterest for a little bit longer but nah, youâre too impatient and horny to torture your boy any longer. Your hands groped in the dark to find the button on his jeans, quickly undoing it and slowly unzipping them as to not make noise. Thankfully some car zoomed by on the screen. A chase scene, but youâve already apprehended your suspect.
Dick let out a tiny gasp as you snaked your hand into his jeans, wrapping your hand around his member. You started stroking him slowly, more feeling him in your palm than anything. His skin was tender and soft, you kept stroking him just to feel that beautiful skin glide against yours.
Dick shuddered as he did everything in his power to keep quiet. You werenât a fan of that, but you werenât a fan of getting a flashlight shone on you more, so youâll have to wait to hear him later.
You ghosted your mouth over the shell of his ear, and he bit his lip, âYouâre being such a good boy for me, now, arenât you?â
Dick stifled a whimper. You let your hand stray to his tip, collecting precum on your fingers and smearing it down his shaft.
âYeah, just like that. Youâll stay quiet for me, wonât you Wing?â
Okay, maybe that was being a little too mean, calling him by his hero name like that. Especially while youâre still going at such a slow teasing pace. He scrunched up his nose, eyes shut tight.
But thereâs at least half an hour left in this movie, youâre gonna take your time with him.
You could feel the vein along his cock, the pulse that throbbed in your hand. You gave him a gentle squeeze and heard Dick suck the air between his teeth. God, feeling him up was addictive.
You know what needs a little love? His balls. Youâre sadly neglecting them right now.
You begrudgingly let go of his cock to drift downwards to scoop a handful of his heavy sack. You pull away and then come back to cup his balls again, just to feel them gently come to rest in your hand. Dick nuzzled his face into your neck, all pretenses of watching a movie abandoned. Very gently, you began to roll the flesh around in your palm.
Shifting your attention back to his member, you gave him a few strokes a bit faster than youâd been going. Dick squirmed in the crook of your neck, his fluffy hair and the noticeable stubble on his cheeks tickling you.
Back to that deliciously slow torture, you stopped, taking a moment to admire the weight of him in your palm. You traced your fingertips along the ridge of where his head met his shaft, all the way around. You took an extra moment to tease that little sweet spot and Dick literally started biting his hand to muffle the moan that slipped out.
âBaby,â he pouted.
The light of the movie screen shone on his pretty blue eyes as he frustratedly glared at you. It was hard for him to look intimidating when he was the worldâs most adorable man. Nevertheless, you conceded.
Although, it would be fun to edge him for the rest of the runtime, only allowing him to come once the credits rolledâŠ
You looked back at his pouty face.
Nah. Heâs a good boy. He deserves a treat.
You spit in your hand. Time for things to get good.
Sliding the spit over his shaft, your hungry hands took their fill a lot faster now. Dick hid his face in your shoulder again. You tightened your grip as you dragged your fist around his cock, and it was a bit more intense. In a slight panic he looked for something that wasnât his poor already chewed up hand to stuff in his mouth, and he settled on his hoodieâs hood. Worked like a charm, and was conveniently by his mouth anyway, he just had to pull the fabric between his teeth. Good. There was no way he was going to be able from making loud pornographic sounds otherwise.
His cock was leaking so much pre, and the slick sounds were getting a bit, uh, noticeable. Thank heavens some loud ass action sequence was happening. The music got faster and everything.
Dickâs hips started doing sloppy little thrusts up into your hand, and you knew he was getting close. You moved along with him, helping him reach that peak. A flick of your thumb over the head of his cock and he was bursting in your hand. Thankfully, the action film you were ignoring provided a loud, fiery explosion to cover up the sound of Dick crying out as he came.
You rode it out with him, stroking him until every last aftershock was through. Dropping the fabric from his mouth, Dick took his face out of the crook of your neck, tears prickling in the corner of his eyes.
Trying to steady his breathing, Dick huffed, âI⊠think I needed that,â
You took your hand out of his pants, reaching up to lick the semen off of your fingers. You savored the salty taste of him as you sensually cleaned yourself. Dick glanced away in an attempt to not get turned on again.
âMmm. Me too,â
(And then you hastily left the theater while that one guy waited for the end credits scene lmao. Freaks)
Roy Harper/BatSis!Reader, â400 words
Request: haiii i saw the link under one of your recent posts! so i was thinking prompt 22 ["Iâve seen the way you look at me when you think I donât notice.â] with roy >< by Anon
A/N: This is one of my favourite things I've written from this prompt list! I hope ya'll enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!
Dick had made him swear not to try anything with you, and since the day heâd finally made your acquaintance, heâd stuck by his word, no matter how badly he wanted you.
But tonight, tonight he could swear you were trying to kill him, like some kind of vampire set on biting his dick and sucking out all the blood you'd sent there with your teasing touches and doe-like looks. Dancing around him in that tight little dress, and a pair of heels that make your legs look so good he can't stop thinking about being choked out between them.
âCâmon, Roy.â Fuck, fuck, fuck. Heâs in for it. A dead man sat on the couch with a siren straddling his thighs. âPlease come out with me tonight, no drinking, just dancing. Just us, hanging out and having fun.â
âNo.â He practically has to force it out. He can't even push you away, convinced once he lays a hand on you he won't be able to keep it from wandering your hypnotic curves.
âWhy not?â You're getting petulant now and it's adorable, pouting, crossing your arms, leaning in closer. If you were his girl heâd put you over his knee and spank you until you were pouting for real. But then again, if you were really his girl, he wouldn't be fighting you; he'd be wrapped around your finger, treating you like the goddess you are.
âIâve seen the way you look at me when you think I donât notice.â You whisper, lips connecting with his burning cheeks. He can imagine your lipstick stain, those perfect lips leaving their mark on his skin. He can picture it in his face, his neck, his chest. How hot it would look as a ring around the base of his cock, smeared all along his length. You're right, of course, about him looking. Heâs a good friend, but heâs also only human after all. âI want you to do more than look at me, Roy. I want you so bad, you can do anything you want to me.â
Its at that exact moment, when you lean back and look at him, desperate and pleading, for him, fingers tantalisingly skimming the hem of your dress, tempting him the chance to really get a look at something, that Roy knew exactly how Atlas had felt when Zeus condemned him to bear the weight of the heavens for all eternity.
send me a pairing/character + a number and iâll write you a drabble/blurb
Jason Todd/Reader, â250 words
Request: heyya, may i request 29. "[redacted for spoilers]" with jason but [redacted for spoilers]? thx!!
By: Anon
A/N: Anon, I physically flinched when I read this, you little genius!
Warning: ANGST
The bouquet of artificial flowers sitting on your kitchen table seems eerily familiar. Daisies for innocents, roses for new beginnings, lilies for sympathy and devotion, an all-white arrangement but for the green stalks of eucalypts meant to symbolise protection, and the dusty pink lotuses for rebirth.
Itâs the mud embedded in their plastic stalks and synthetic petals that clue you in on something sinister happening. They shouldnât be here. You remember spending days at the library, studying what each one symbolised, making lists and imagining potential designs before you made up your mind. Youâd specifically decided against fresh flowers; youâd wanted something that would last as long as your love for Jason would.
The day of his funeral, youâd placed them on his grave. Every few months, youâd go back, keeping them organised, keeping them clean, ensuring they were never stolen or blown away by the wind. They certainly werenât supposed to be here.
What the fuck are they doing here?!
âHey, you home?â You call out to your roommate, hoping they havenât left for the night shift yet and can offer you any sort of answer that will keep your teetering mind from spiralling. Surely, they canât be responsible. When they donât answer, you approach their door, an octave away from shouting. "Hey, where did you get the flowers from?"
âMy grave.â The voice that replies isnât the one you were expecting. Itâs a deep, croaking voice, one that sounds as though it hasnât spoken in the light of day for years, and it isnât coming from the other side of the door. Itâs coming from behind you.
Drabble list #1 - send me a prompt for a drabble/blurb
In a world where jason todd likes to see his girl in red *sighs dreamily*
DOn't get me started!!!!!
Like Jay who never understood the appeal of nail polish and manicures until he looked down at your hand in his one day, or wrapped around his cock and was suddenly obsessed seeing his shade of red on your fingertips.
Jay who pretends he's not watching intently as you try on every shade of lipstick or gloss in your collection, trying to find the perfect match for your outfit, but when you ask which one he likes the most he tells you without hesitation; â2 shades back.â
God and if you leave transfers on his lips, jaw, neckline! He turns as red as the rouge, starin' at it in every reflection, glaring down anyone give him a funny look over it.
Jay who 'lets' you 'drag' him shopping with you. Who carries all your bags and ignores any asshole bfs/husbands who complain about being in the same situation as he waits for you to come out of the changing room.
"So, what do you think?" You ask, twirling around in the fourth dress of the day. "I've gotta pick one."
All of them look great on you, his girls a head turner for sure, but "What about the red one we saw in the window?"
Internally he's been just as excited as you had been outwardly when you'd both seen it, but it was out of your budget and thatâs exactly what you begin to tell him but he's already up, asking the shop assistant for one in your size. Can't hurt to try it on at least.
When you emerge from the cubicle minutes later, Jay knows itâs the one. There's no way you're leaving the store without it.
"What do you think?" He asks and you frown, at your reflection.
"It's beautiful, but I still can't afford it."
"Don't worry." He's up from the bench, holding your hand in the air as he encourages you to do a little spin for him so he can soak in every inch of you. "My treat."
What his girl wants, she gets he'll tell anyone who asks. Not that he's a simp for her in his shade of red.
could you write something about loser!ellie getting super flustered at the idea of strap sucking but then end up being reeeally into it.. đđ
â ËïœĄâàšà§Ë strap sucking w loser!ellie
a/n: heyyyy thanks for the req!! this one was so freaking fun to write omg i rlly hope u like it!!
loser!ellie whose face goes entirely red when you first suggest the idea, giving you a full double take. âyou wanna what??â sheâd ask, all stiff and too flustered to say anything when you speak your request again. âi wanna suck your strap.â plain and simple, looking right at her. youâd think you were asking about the weather.
loser!ellie who caves the second you try to charm her. âplease, ellie,â youâd say. youâre looking into her eyes and she canât bring herself to look back. god you donât know what hearing you say her name does to her.
loser!ellie whoâs flustered but still apprehensive after you ask. but then you rest a hand on her shoulder, rubbing affectionately. itâs the slightest touch but it already has her mind spinning. then you just had to say âyou just feel so good inside me, els. i wanna know what you taste like.â oh, she was fucking done for.
loser!ellie who sits on the edge of the bed and watches you almost reverently as you sink down on your knees infront of her, heart pounding, pupils dilated, a light coat of blush dusting her cheeks when you look up at her from below.
loser!ellie who has to bite her lip when she first sees you take the tip of her strap in your mouth.
loser!ellie who practically loses her mind when you start moaning around her, muffled âmmhf-!âs and âah-!âs all around her strap, as your pretty lips struggled to accommodate.
loser!ellie who swears she can feel every move your mouth makes on her strapâevery suck, every bob, the way your lips flutter around her, the way you were so eager to take her deeper and deeper. fuck, she was seeing stars.
loser!ellie who lets you know how good you feel with a tentative hand in your hair and a high pitched whine she really only ever let you hear once or twice. it catches you by surprise, but it gives you all the encouragement you need to keep going.
loser!ellie who keeps a hand on your head, guiding it up and down, as her eyes follow you on her strap, voice shaky as she drawls out a âmhm, t-thatâs itâgod-f-fuckkkk-just like that-yeahhh.â, her embarrassment from before fading quickly.
loser!ellie who 100% wouldâve gotten off from just the sight of her strap down your throat. the sounds you make are just a bonusâevery muffled âmmf-ellie-â and unintelligible âtaste sâgood-â only serves to push her closer to the edge,
loser!ellie who throws her head back and tightens her grip on your hair, muttering a broken âf-fuck-!â, when she literally comes at the sight of you looking up at her from between her legs, strap disappearing behind your lipsâpink and pretty, stretched to take her inâyour lashes fluttering like some kind of angel.
loser!ellie who holds your head down when she cums, the lightest push as she bucks her hips up into you, breathy gasps and broken moans falling from her lips.
loser!ellie whose chronic shyness slowly returns when sheâs fully come down, red in the face as you watch her come back from the throes of ecstasy. your pretty lips busy pressing gentle kisses into her inner thigh.
loser!ellie who gets waaaay too embarrassed when you bring up her apparent enjoyment. âkinda seems like you liked that.â youâd smile smugly, earning a flustered âshut up.â though itâs painfully obvious to both of you that sheâs all but waiting to go again.
loser!ellie who lays in bed that night wondering how the actual fuck you sucking her strap was the best head she ever got.
loser!ellie who cherishes the memory of you looking up at her while you suck her off like a treasure in her mind, replaying the scene over and over until the next time you inevitably try it again. (which is like the next day probably)
Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, prostitution, cheating, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
Summary: Your arrangement with Mr. Shelby wears you down.
Characters: Tommy Shelby
Note: this is a June scrabble but also a sequel to January 11: Tommy Shelby and Past Due.
I welcome and appreciate all feedback. This means replies, reblogs, and asks. I do prefer if you can reblog and share my work along with your thoughts. <3
Please check my pinned post for more information on my blog, stories, and asks!
Do one kind thing for yourself today and take care.đ
The small wooden box holds a loaf, a wrapped hunk of cheese, a jar of jam, and a healthy cut of pork. It'll be enough for just you. You've still got banknotes to spare; you squirrel them away on the empty tea canister behind the full one. Just in case...
It isn't so easy having money. It fixed one problem but sparked others. The banknotes buy more than a night; they afford your dignity and each pence is another dint in your soul.
As you turn the corner, a whistle bristles behind your neck. A shadow snarls from against the grey brick, ânice skirt, lassie. Bet it looks better up high.â
You shudder and hug the box of your groceries tighter. A sole scuffs and drags as stale tobacco clouds from behind you. You donât dare look back as you sense the stranger following you.
âHey, kitty,â he slurs. âWhy ainât ya slow dââ
The man coughs and chokes loudly. You gasp and spin around at the blur of motion behind you. Rigid shoulders block your sight of the man now splayed on the cobbles.
Thomas Shelby steps on the littered cigarette still smoking and twists his foot to blot it out entirely. You stare at his back, paralysed by his sudden appearance. Itâs only the second week of the month. He was only around days ago. A visit you still feel in your thighs.
The man sputters from the ground as Tommy kicks his leg. âGet up and go before you canât.â
The stranger struggles to turn over onto his knees. He crawls away before getting his feet under him and wobbling up to half his height. He hacks and grumbles as he flees in a hunch.
Tommy turns to you as he reaches under his jacket. The butt of his gun sticks out from his holster as he slides free his cigarette case. He pulls a stick free and offers it to you. You shake your head and he puts it between his lips instead.
âSweetheart,â he snaps the case shut and puts it under his jacket. âWhatâre ya out here wanderinâ for?â
You look down at your groceries. He flicks his lighter to spark the tip of the cigarette. He plumes out smoke as he slides the lighter away. He steps closer and puts his hands on the box.
âYâalright?â He asks.
You nod dumbly. âSirââ
âAh, come on then, we know each other betterân that,â he growls around his cigarette as it dangles between his lips. He takes the groceries and gestures you ahead with a tilt of his chin.
You turn and walk along with him puffing tobacco at your side. Youâre jittery. Not only from that man but from the one beside you; outwardly helping you though you know his intentions better than that. Why tonight? Why so early?
As you get to your building, you pull out your keys. He waits patiently. You open the door and pause. âMr. Shelby, you donât gotta do all thatââ You reach for the box.
âWasnât calling me Mr. Shelby last week,â he clings to the groceries.
âI⊠do you want the money backââ
He scoffs and curls one arm around the box. He pulls the cigarette away and blows out a long stream of smoke. âYou know what I want.â
You swallow. âItâsâŠâ
âEarly, eh?â He reads your mind. âIs it, then? You tell me when I come ân go now?â
âNo, sir. Tommy,â you stutter. âIâm only⊠I didnât have time to readyââ
âLook ready ânough for me.â He tosses the cigarette and reaches over you. He grabs the door. âIn, now.â His voice dips even lower. âWhen we get to your place, donât say a word.â
You turn your eyes downward and spin away. You march inside and he follows. Heâs like a shadow on your heels. You climb the stairs and his hand creeps up the back of your dress. You hiccup in surprise as he gropes your rear and growls.
âSkirt is niceâŠâ he drawls. âFuck.â
You get to your floor and guide him down to your door. He snatches the keys from you and unlocks the door himself. He pushes the door inward and points. You enter and take off your jacket. You hang it as he goes to the kitchen and puts down the box.
You unbutton your blouse as he treads around. He rubs his lower lip as he paces, eyeing the couch and the empty tea cup beside it. He looks at you and hums.
âLooks like you been eatinâ better, eh?â He says.
âYes, sâ Tommy. I⊠Thank you, Iâve been shopping more.â You utter awkwardly as you reveal your camisole. His eyes fall down to your sharp nipples poking through the cotton.
âHave ya? Should but some satinâŠâ he growls as he pushes his coat back and grips his hips.
âI⊠I buy what I need.â
âIâm tryna give ya what you want.â He insists.
He sighs and turns. He walks across the room to the writing desk. He pulls out the drawer and unholsters his gun. He puts it inside and closes it. He locks it with the key he keeps on him. Itâs his habit, as if he thinks you could ever pull a trigger.
Next, he removes his hat, the key hidden in the trim with the blades he carries at all times. He hangs his overcoat on the chair and faces you. He remains in his full suit as you unbutton the back of your skirt. You slip free and stand in your camisole, bloomers, and stockings.
âYou look fed,â he says as he nears, lips curling. He stares at your chest. âThey look⊠fuller.â
âI donât⊠I donât know.â You shrug.
âMm, come âere,â he stands beside the couch.
You go to him, shivering. âGas isnât on.â He says.
âI can turn it on.â You offer.
âNah, Iâll warm yâup, sweetheart.â He brushes his knuckles down your bare arms. âWhy donât you get all this off?â
He looks down at this suit. You follow his gaze. Sometimes heâll take off his jacket and tie; usually heâs mostly dressed and youâre not.
You hook your thumbs under his lapels and push the jacket back on his shoulders. He lets you strip it off. You fold it over the threadbare chair on the other side of the couch. You return to him and unbutton his vest. You can see his chest rise and fall calmly. Your own heart is ragged.
You expect him to stop you. Vest, tie, shirt, belt, shoes, undershirt. He stands in his trousers and you wait for his order. It doesnât come.
You push down his trousers and find him pressed up inside his undershorts. You never saw too much of him. Somehow, it made it easier. You could feel him but not seeing so much of what he did helped you get through.
Your hands shake as you touch the linen. He purrs and puts his hands over yours. He helps you guide them past his rigid need and lets them fall to his feet. He kicks free of them as he latches onto you.
âKeep this on,â he touches your camisole.
He turns and sits on the couch, his cock bobbing in front of his stomach. You try not to look at it. You push your bloomers down, leaving your camisole and stockings in place.
He beckons you with a curl of his fingers. âGet on me.â
Your lip trembles. Heâs always in control. On top or behind. Never like this.
You go to him and he leans forward to guide you onto his lap. You kneel just above him and he reaches below you to rub his tip against your thigh. He quivers.
âNow. I need you.â He demands.
You let yourself down slowly. His tip stretches you and you whine. Itâs not easier than the first, second, third, or however many other times. You sink onto him until you canât take any more.
His hands crawl up your sides as he exhales loudly. He quakes as his voice grizzles in his throat. He fondles you under the loose cotton.
âMove,â he commands.
You tilt your hips and he groans. You do it again. You wince as your walls squeeze him. You put your hands on his shoulders as you carry the rhythm as best you can. He dips one hand around you to cup your bottom.
Your breath mingles with him as you pant wildly. Your insides strain and knot as you feel him tensing. His arm curls around you and he pulls you closer, burying his face in the crook of your neck. He leads your tempo with his hand on your backside.
âThatâs it, sweetheart. Thatâs what I need.â
Youâre not going fast or hard, but the long strokes have you babbling. You hang your head back as he nuzzles you. His groans steam against your skin.
âSweetheart, youâre so sweet.â He grits. âSo sweet when Iâm inside.â
-
You wake up, sweaty and sticky. Crowded on the couch. You open your eyes and stare at the wall. Itâs been a long time since you woke up not being cold.
You shift under the arm around you. No. Heâs still⊠there. He doesnât stay. Not ever. No.
You donât know why he would. You canât guess at it. Just like you donât know why he showed up unexpected, so needy. It scares you. You could handle the monthly visits, even if they lasted hours, but this is different. This is ominous.
You gently move his arm off of him. You roll off the edge of the couch. Your camisole is crumpled at your waist. You stand and pull it up. Heâs naked. Hard, again or still. You canât say.
You grab a blanket and drape it over him. He snores and wriggles, sinking further into the sofa. You find your thin robe and wrap yourself up.Â
You leave him and go into the kitchen. You smell the pork. Itâs cold enough that it hasnât turned. You put it all away.
You put the kettle over the lit gas burner and wait for it to boil. You find two cups. Youâll have to send him off with something⊠once he wakes. You donât dare rouse him. A man like him is hardly one you want to disturb when at peace.
You slice into the loaf and set it on a tray with the butter dish and the fresh pot of jam. You hope itâll be enough. The clink of the glass is loud in the silence; not as loud as his grunt.
âSweetheart,â he rasps. âYou runninâ away?â He turns onto his back and his arm hangs over the edge.
âMr.-- Tommy,â you approach him, wringing your hands. âIâm only making some tea.â
âTeaâŠâ he lifts his hand to rub his forehead. âMmm. Good woman.â
You donât say anything. You donât dare point out the obvious or ask questions. Why did he stay?
âAnd will I have something sweet with my tea?â He asks as he looks up at you with his bold blue eyes.
âIâve bread and jamââ
He snorts. âEh, not what I mean.â You gulp as he swings his arm down and grabs himself through the blanket. âA man hurts so early. Dreaminâ of pretty things like you.â
-
Tommy leaves again. When will he be back? Itâs more and more often. Youâre exhausted from his visits. Edgy at the expectation of his intrusion; both of your home and your body.
You stopped looking for real work. You sleep late most days and struggle to do more than feed yourself between his interruptions. You donât know how much longer you can do this.
You look around at the apartment. The same couch and chair. The same stove and scratched floor. He brings you little things; a vase with flowers now drooping, a thicker blanket with beautiful embroidery, even a pair of shoes he said would look fine on you.
You donât need gifts, you need money.
You count out the banknotes in the tin. Itâs enough. It will have to be.
You look at the packed carpet bag by the door. He can keep the rest. You wonât go on like this. You wonât pay for your existence by giving away your very being. You can feel it splintering away bit by bit.
Thereâs a train out of town. Itâll take you to Manchester. You have enough for the trip and then some. Enough to go all the way home or to buy a room for a few months or so. Enough to get you away.
You leave without looking back. You canât. You walk down the streets, slumping, paranoid. Is that one of his men? That hat! No, it isnât Tommy, just another man with dark hair and a yen for tobacco.
The train station is busy. You feel better as you weave into the crowd, disappearing into it. You buy your ticket and board. You hug your bag and stare out the window as you chug away from Birmingham.
When you get to your stop, you feel the weight slowly lifting. It will probably always be there but you can breathe a bit better. You peer around the city as you emerge into the streets. It might be worse here but you just couldnât stay there. Not with him.
-
You find something. It pays little but you make it work. You work at a factory sewing shirts. Itâs better than rolling tobacco, you suppose. The smell alone reminds youâŠ
The hours take you from a dark morning to the dark evening. You walk home to your shared apartment where you have tea and stale bread with stew. A pot lasts you the week.
Every day is like the last but you canât complain for it. Itâs easier to know whatâs expected. Easier to be invisible and get by.
Itâs another early morning. Your head is foggy with fatigue. You work at your station with needle and thread. The collars are too delicate to be put through a machine. You bend your neck as you push the sharp tip into your thimble, over and over.
âThat must be âim,â Margie says from your left.
âIs. Saw him earlier in that fancy car.â Catherine replies.
You donât stop. Chatter on the line will have the forewoman on you. Youâre paid by the shirt, not the hour.
âWhatâs he want, ya think?â Margie asks.
âHeard heâs lookinâ to buy the heap.â Catherine hisses.
âHmph, shirt sewers and all.â
âNah, I heard he was gonâ make it inta a brewery,â Catherine counters.
âEh? Sâpose they wonât be havinâ us workinâ the barrels,â Margie harrumphs.
You try not to listen. Not to think. Thatâs the way things go these days. A job isnât guaranteed. Not ever. You bet ale makes more money than shirts.
âYou,â Anya, the forewoman, pokes your back meanly. âBoss wants yâup in the office.â
You flinch and look back and forth between Margie and Catherine.
âYeah, you. Probably your tally from yesterday.â She snarls. âSome of ya girls donât know yer numbers.â
You frown. Thatâs valuable time you could be sewing. You put your work down and get off your stool. You pass Anya and head for the metal stairs.
You climb up and head down to Mr. Pierreâs office. You heard he isnât French, he just didnât like his name. You fix the scarf over your hair and knock.
âMr. Pierre?â You call through.
You wait. No answer. You try again. He might not be able to hear you past the pressing machines.
You turn the handle. Itâs unlocked. You slowly poke your head inside. The desk is empty. Oh.
Before you can back out, you feel something against your temple. âGet in here, sweetheart.â
You cringe at the timbre. No. Please.
You have no choice. You obey. Tommy pushes the door shut as he keeps the pistol pointed at you. You turn to face him.
âNice to see ya again, sweetheart.â His arm stays straight as he glares over the barrel. He drops his aim and huffs. âWellâŠâ
You stare at him. Youâre not stupid. This isnât a surprise. You just hoped he wouldnât care that much.
âYouâre not even gonna beg?â He asks.
âForâŠâ
âYour life?â
You shake your head.
âWhat about the little oneâs?â He presses the gun to your stomach. âEh? That might save ya.â
You look down at the subtle curve in your middle. You havenât thought about it. Really, you just hoped it would go away. With how little you eat, how much you work, you figured it might just take care of itself.
He laughs. You flinch and lift your gaze back to him. Your lips part.
âYou know what that meansâŠâ he pulls the gun back and holsters it. He steps closer and clicks his tongue. âYou will never forget me.â He puts his hand on your bump. âYou will never be rid of me.â
Dick Grayson cracks me up with how delusional he can be. I just know that, during his detective era, whether public or private, you must've worked with him at some point. Which means there had to be those awkward little breakroom conversations.
You know, the "Oh, how was your weekend?" or "Did you see that email blah blah blah sent?"
Just basic coworker talk.
Except Detective Grayson has already convinced himself that something is going on between the two of you. I mean, c'mon. You're practically hiding your relationship so nobody reports it to HR.
In his pretty little head, the two of you are taking things slow. You're shy around him. You left your scrunchie on his desk the other day on purpose, obviously. Not because you were cleaning out the desk beside his. That would be stupid. You always take your coffee break at the same time because you love seeing him. Not because that happens to be when the freshest pot of the morning is brewed. Last week, when you passed him a file, your fingers brushed and you looked away with a smile on your face.
You're shy. That's all.
He understands, of course. Some of his siblings lack social skills too, so he's used to being the bigger person.
Dick has always been good with people, which means he naturally knows you're waiting for him to announce your relationship to the workplace. He isn't trying to rush you. He's letting you feel safe. Giving you time to realize on your own that the two of you fit together perfectly.
He's already imagined how you'll decorate his apartment, how he'll make space for your things, and the dog you'll adopt that will play so nicely with Haley. He can practically feel the kiss you'll press to his cheek in the early mornings while wearing one of his old university shirts, your hair still messy as he makes you breakfast.
So imagine his absolute surprise when you start chatting with the other girls in the office about how sweet and considerate your boyfriend has been, making you all these nutrient-dense meals because the two of you are going to start trying for a baby after the wedding.
You're just sharing cute little relationship details with the girls, and Dick wants to chuck his "World's Second-Best Detective" mug across the room.
Because... boyfriend?
You never mentioned a boyfriend.
And now you're marrying him? Trying for a baby with him?
Dick's first thought isn't that he misunderstood you. It's that something is obviously very wrong.
Maybe your boyfriend is pressuring you into this with his breeding kink or whatever. What a pervert. You probably think this is what you're supposed to want. To spend the rest of your life tending to some mediocre man who couldn't possibly understand you the way Dick does.
You're just settling because Dick took too long and made you think he wasn't serious about you.
He feels awful.
You must've been crying yourself silly over this. Feeling rejected. Wondering why he hadn't made things official yet.
You should've just said something.
Then he would've spoken up sooner.
It doesn't help that you've soured his mood so badly that his nightly plans are practically ruined. How is he supposed to go home, wrap the scrunchie you so kindly gifted him for your one-week anniversary around his wrist, and jerk off to the fantasy of getting you pregnant when apparently some random man is planning to touch you instead?
Dick can make you nutrient-dense meals too, y'know. If he gets busy, Alfred knows plenty of recipes.
Gosh, Dick is hurt.
How could you let things get this far with someone else when the two of you already had something?
Sure, the only conversation you've ever had is:
"How's it going?"
"Living the dream!"
But Dick knows what he felt. He may be living in a daydream, but you're going to be living in a nightmare in about two days, once he finishes putting your relationship back on track. :)
@/divinyae
Blaming a few moots for him infecting my brain as of late...
Vrushev i love your writing on dick Grayson, is it okay if i request any of the Batman boys smut but twincest? Like they are twins with the reader with smutt you can choose either Jason or dick!
TW: incest, dubcon/noncon, slight somonophillia, big brother grayson back at it again
hmm. i do think dick would find a way to make being your brother sexual in any capacity, but the two of you being twins adds an extra layer of intimacy to it for him. you came into this world together, after all, and dick doesn't see any reason why the two of you should ever be apart again after. he's not all that religious, but he has to believe that the forces at be created you for each other. there's just no other explanation for how he feels for you.
so naturally, as your adoring brother, closest friend, and lover he can be a bit overprotective. so what if he abuses his power as a beat cop to threaten any boy that so much as asks for your phone number? they can't give you anything that he can't. he doesn't trust anyone else to know you and your needs. his chest gets hot to thinking of a different man sneaking into your bedroom at night, waking you suddenly and being all too rough as they pull down your pj pants. they wouldn't know how to coo to you when you start crying, wouldn't think to wipe your tears while their hand snakes between your legs. they wouldn't understand you like he does, wouldn't be able to find the spots that make your toes curl with their eyes closed or bother keeping track of what time of month your breasts get too sore to fondle. they wouldn't make love to you like he does; they would use and abuse you and not cherish you the way you deserve. the way he does.
or maybe they would, and honestly the thought of that is what makes dick the most scared. without you, what is he?
it's best the two of you don't find out, he thinks. he'll just keep doing his best to make sure his darling better half is always being loved like she deserves.
forcing you to rub your pussy on my bulge when you're not really in the mood at all. when you're busy or stressed out or distracted or just not thinking about your pussy at all for once. but i'm thinking about it. and i'm packed and i'm hard whether you want me to be or not. and i call you over and i'm sitting in my boxers with my legs spread and my bulge unmistakable and you really don't feel like it right now but you still take off your pants when i tell you to because you know otherwise i'm just going to end up taking them off you myself and you're not in the mood to be spanked right now either, so yeah. you take them off. and you climb into my lap and let me pull you down hard against me so you can't fake it. and it feels good, even when you don't want it to. the way my hands squeeze down on your hips and force you to move. that little jolt every time your clit rubs over the head of my cock. the way i lean in and bite your nipples through your t shirt. it feels good even if you hate it a little bit. it feels good even if it hurts a little bit. i'm going to fuck you. you know i'm going to fuck you. i always fuck you when i'm like this. i'm doing you a favor giving you a chance to get in the mood first. you know i don't have to do that. so you might as well let it feel good. you might as well rub your pretty pussy up against me just how i want you to until it really feels good. you might as well beg me to pull your panties to the side so i can feel how wet you're getting for me. you might as well beg me to pull my dick out and put it inside you so you can pretend it was ever your choice. either way you know you're going to end up sore and dripping down your thighs so you might as well just let yourself enjoy it.
