mads 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖

lotus-eater

[montagoves]

`maddie` 𓈒⠀she / her 𓂃⠀23⠀˖⠀ ♑︎ ⠀˖⠀masterlist⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

❦ morally grey characters, marlboro reds, supernatural, black coffee, jason todd, cherry coke, 2000s pop punk, dean winchester, vampires, honey buns, laufey, rdr2, scooby doo, sabrina, from blood and ash, outlast

although i’m not a big writer please do not repost, translate, or republish any of my works (even if credit is given). i work very hard on them, so please don’t be rude and ruin one of my passions for me!

kpop blog: @darl-ings

this is your reminder to drink water!

[timdrakelonghairtruther]

Batfam where everything is what you typically come across except instead of Jason calling Tim 'pretender' or 'replacement' he just calls him a larper

[cowboysoupbowl]

cowboy kisses

[lovesick-joey]

It would mean everything to me if you would draw the batling cozy . Maybe with a lipstick kissie mark on its forehead

in my bankie

[starl1ghtgr4yson]

ᰔ 𝓢ugar High ˙ . ꒷ 🍰 . 𖦹˙—

｡𖦹°‧ Pairing — Jason Todd x fem!reader

｡𖦹°‧Content/summary — What starts as you taking up baking as a hobby quickly turns into a full-blown crisis. Jason goes from dutifully eating your rock-hard practice brownies to becoming addicted to your homemade pastries. He gains a little comfortable soft layer over his abs, smells like vanilla and cinnamon 24/7, and couldn't care less what his brothers have to say about it.

At this point, it was getting ridiculous.

When you first started baking, Jason was basically a hero just for swallowing the messes you made. Chocolate chip cookies that tasted like straight salt, loaves of sourdough dense enough to dent the wall, and strawberry cupcakes that tasted like garlic…!

He ate all of it anyway. Sitting on the counter in his sweatpants, jaw working overtime through a brick-hard brownie, crumbs flying everywhere. "Baby, it’s not bad…. you’re getting better. You should keep going.”

So you did. You learned how to brown butter, and mastered high-fat pastries.

And that's when Jason officially lost his mind.

Now, the apartment constantly smelled so sweet it was almost criminal. Warm yeast, caramelized sugar, browning butter, and that heavy, rich scent of real vanilla bean that hung in the air.

It got to the point where Jason smelled like it 24/7. It didn't matter if he'd just spent six hours fighting guys in a damp sewer—the second he pulled off the red helmet, he didn't smell like Gotham air or cordite anymore. He smelled ridiculously like warm vanilla bean and spicy cinnamon. It clung to his skin, his hair, his jacket, even his sweat. It was his natural scent at this point.

And he was completely, hopelessly feral for it.

The man was eating continuously. You’d wake up at three in the morning to the sound of plastic wrap rustling in the dark, finding him leaning against the fridge in his boxers, shoving a cold, glaze-covered cinnamon roll into his mouth before he’d even turned the light on. He’d come home from patrol covered in rain and soot, kick his boots off, and walk straight past you to grab a warm vanilla cupcake off the cooling rack.

Not one. Three. In about thirty seconds flat.

You’d sit on the counter and watch him eat like he’d been starving uin the desert, his eyes half-shut, frosting smeared across his thumb. He didn't even use plates anymore. Just stood there in his gear, breathing in the sweet bakery air of the kitchen, completely hooked.

Naturally, eating his weight in heavy cream, butter, and sugar every single day caught up with him.

He was still huge—the man was broad as a barn and could still throw a guy through a windshield—but the tight, shrink-wrapped abs were completely gone. In their place was a noticeably soft, solid layer. A cozy kind of soft. The kind where resting your head on his chest while watching TV felt ten times better because he actually had some padding over his ribs—and he smelled like a fresh tray of cinnamon buns while you cuddled him.

He didn't care. He was living in a sugar-induced bliss.

The rest of the family, unfortunately, had eyes (and noses).

It came to a head on a Tuesday in the Batcave. Jason was leaning back against the console, jacket half-unzipped, lazily listening to Bruce rant about precinct logs.

Dick walked past, stopped dead in his tracks, and sniffed the air like a hound dog before looking right at Jason’s middle. Before Jason could react, Dick darted a hand out and jabbed a finger right into his side.

"Dude," Dick said, his mouth twitching into a wide grin. "Are you getting... doughy? And why do you smell like a bakery?"

Tim didn't look up from his screen, but he snorted into his mug. "It's all he eats. Every time I radio him, I can hear him chewing a muffin. He literally smells like sweet vanilla from ten feet away. He's an addict."

"It's embarrassing," Damian muttered from across the room, scowling over a batarang. "You look like you're preparing to hibernate, Todd. And you smell like a confectioner's shop. Your conditioning is shot."

Jason didn't even blink. He reached out, slapped Dick’s hand away hard enough to leave a red mark, and reached straight into his inner jacket pocket.

He pulled out a soft, foil-wrapped vanilla bun you’d snuck into his gear before he left, peeled the foil back with his teeth, and shoved half of it into his mouth right in front of them.

"Cry about it," Jason mumbled around a mouthful of soft dough, icing sticking to the corner of his lip. "You guys are up here eating cardboard protein bars and drinking grass water. My girl makes these from scratch. Every day. I'm taking this to my grave."

Dick stared at the bun, the smug look instantly evaporating as the rich smell of cinnamon drifted across the cave. "...Is that cream cheese frosting?"

Jason zipped his jacket up over his soft stomach with zero shame, smelling like pure vanilla sugar, and took another huge bite.

"Don't even breathe near it, Dick. Get your own girl."

They should have left it at that. But Dick and Tim thought it would be funny to test the theory.

The next afternoon, while Jason was out doing a routine sweep of Crime Alley, Dick swiped the tin of fresh cinnamon rolls and the box of vanilla-bean cupcakes you’d sent Jason off with for the shift.

They realized their mistake within two hours.

Without his daily influx of sugar and butter, Jason didn't just get annoyed—he turned downright vicious.

By hour three of patrol, his radio comms were just a series of low, terrifying snarls. When Tim tried to check in on a lead, Jason cut him off by telling him to "shut your mouth before I cave your visor in." When a mugger in an alley hesitated to put his weapons down, Jason didn't negotiate; he threw the guy through a brick wall, kicked his gun across the street, and slammed the alley door so hard the hinges bent.

By the time everyone regrouped in the Batcave, the tension was suffocating.

Jason practically stomped down the glass stairs, helmet yanked off, his jaw clenched so tight the muscles were twitching. His hair was sticking up, his eyes were bloodshot, and he looked ready to murder a man with his bare hands.

"Where is it," Jason snapped, his voice dangerously quiet, stepping right into Dick's personal space.

Dick swallowed hard, suddenly realizing that a withdrawal-addicted Red Hood was not a joke. "Jay, calm down, we just—"

"I asked you a question, Dickhead," Jason barked, slamming a heavy tactical gauntlet onto the main console hard enough to rattle the monitors. "Where are the fucking cinnamon rolls."

You would’ve thought Dick killed someone by the way Jason was staring at him,

"We took them!" Tim blurted out, holding up hands in surrender from behind his chair. "We wanted to see if you were actually addicted! You've been a nightmare on comms all night, man, you're literally going through sugar withdrawal!"

"Give. Them. Back." Jason’s eyes narrowed into slit-like glares. "I have had a twelve-hour day, my head hurts, I smell like cheap exhaust, and I am five seconds away from beating both of you into the concrete if my girl's baking isn't back in my hands."

Dick frantically reached under the desk, pulling out the sealed tin and handing it over like a bomb squad tech disarming an explosive.

Jason snatched the tin, popped the lid off immediately, and took a massive, angry bite out of a roll. He stood there in the middle of the cave, breathing heavily, chewing aggressively while staring daggers at both of them.

Within thirty seconds, as the soft dough and heavy glaze hit his system, his shoulders slowly dropped. The vein pulsing in his temple calmed down. He let out a long, shuddering sigh, the scary edge melting away as that familiar, warm vanilla aroma washed over him again.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, gave Dick one last, lethal glare, and hugged the tin tightly against his chest, his softer stomach pressing into the metal lid.

"Don't ever," Jason grunted, walking back toward the Batmobile, "touch my food again."

Requested by @nightwingsbabydoll tysm! This was so fun to write.

Taglist: @leovaldez0924 @newangelle @pxrcyjcksons @rani1028 @maradcrs @purelypersistentribe @cecillia-stuff @sarahskywalker-amidala @starrydustedwinter @brucewayneisavirgin @idkwhattosaynowsorry @sexy-sadie-6505 @steadyclarityparadox @fireriyu

[shapsara]

Object Permanence

Pairing: Estranged Husband! Arthur Morgan x F!Reader

WC: 3.5K

Summary: The former Mrs Morgan asks Arthur for a favour.

Warnings: 18+ sexual content, oral sex, premature ejaculation, mutual masturbation, marriage, divorce, fingering, arthur is very pathetic, reader is implied to be a lawyer but can be any job, established relationship, wait and dry humping

photo credits: here, here, here

shapsara's masterlist

A/N: This is brought to you by a night shift and a Tesco meal deal. First part to a series that I hope will be something I can dip in and out of for fun when I'm feeling writer's block. I'm trying to get into the mindset of "it doesn't have to be good, it just has to exist. Title is taken from a poem called "Object Permanence" by Hala Alyan.

"Arthur?"

"What's wrong?" His voice is soft over the phone.

"No. Nothing's wrong." You hesitate and then speak again. "The shower at mine is broken."

He's silent.

"The guy said he could come tomorrow."

"Jesus. That's why you called me?" His voice is harsh. "Wait till tomorrow."

"I have a job interview." You say helplessly. "At a new firm. I—please."

Arthur mutters ferociously in the background, but you can hear the telltale shuffle of his steps and the clink of his toolbox. He's at yours so fast that when you open the door, you are still in your slippers. Seeing him makes your heart jolt and stomach roil. He looks well. Despite the circles under his eyes and the overgrown stubble. He fills out his old brown jacket just the same as he did before—although his stomach looks a little softer and his eyes are bloodshot. Has he been drinking?

"Thank you." You say softly and widen the door to let him in.

Arthur toes off his boots at the front door, second nature from all the times you've shouted at him for tracking mud all over the carpets. He shrugs off his jacket and looks at you, scanning you the way you must be scanning him. His eyes flicker over the curves of your breasts under your pyjama shirt. You cross your arms over them, and he blinks, shaking his head as if to clear it.

It has been months since you have seen him, and perhaps that has dulled the harsh, sharp feeling in your sternum, the pull of your body towards him. His hair sweeps the collar of his flannel shirt. It's new, blue.

"D'you want a coffee?" An olive branch.

Arthur nods, briefly, setting the box of tools down next to his socked feet.

"Nice place you got here." His voice is without judgement.

You'd let him keep the house you'd bought together two years ago. Why foist him upon John and Abigail when you are more than capable of getting your own place? Besides, you never liked the place. It's too dated, the floral wallpaper too gaudy, the red door like a stain of blood over the whitewashed plaster of the walls. The windchimes he'd made you hung over it. This suits you, sleek, modern. A marble kitchen island and a king bed all to yourself.

Arthur clears his throat, breaking you out of the memories of the house. Out of memories of the four-poster bed and the colourful rugs you'd picked out together.

"What's the issue? With the shower?"

"The water just leaks through the head." You turn on your heel and lead him through.

The place looks too small around him, the way he shrugs his shoulders and ducks his head to move through the doorways. You lead him to the washroom and slide open the glass shower.

"It leakin' anywhere else?"

"Sometimes through the tile. It just stopped working this morning."

"Alright." He kneels on the shower bathroom floor, removing the tools from his box. You stand there awkwardly and then remember—coffee. You can make coffee. Even though 6 pm is too late for coffee.

The kitchen is bright white, and the cabinets are sleek, fitted neatly into the walls, their handles tucked discreetly beneath them. You find mugs. Arthur likes it plain, black. What a waste of the fancy coffee machine you bought. Instead of using it, you reach into the cupboard for the bottle of instant coffee you'd bought last week, unthinkingly. Even though you only really use the machine. The mugs are hot, and you pour milk and sugar into yours, a half cup, and fill his to the brim with acrid black coffee. You approach the bathroom and set the mug down beside his knee. Sitting on the closed toilet lid, you cross your legs and take a sip of your coffee.

"Congratulations on the interview." He says, without looking at you.

"It's just a formality. They approached me."

"Thought you liked your firm."

" I'd be stupid not to take it. They're offering double what I make now."

"Well," Arthur says shortly. "You always had better ideas."

You bite back a "hell is that supposed to mean, prick?"

"You're looking well." You say pointedly.

"Been workin', " he mutters. "Got a dog. She keeps me busy."

You'd begged him for a puppy. A German Shepherd. You scowl into your mug.

"Don't look like that. Found her in the gutter." Arthur's voice is wry as he steps back to switch on the showerhead, testing the water. It trickles miserably. "Think it's a burst pipe."

"How long will it take to fix?"

"A couple of hours. Maybe."

Jesus. A couple of hours with him still in your space, and you'll peel your skin off.

"Don't gotta babysit me. Ain't gonna steal your fancy soaps."

You flinch at the jibe. The arch in his brow tells you exactly what he's referring to. That night at your parents' where your mother had stashed every valuable into the house safe upon hearing that your ex-prisoner husband was visiting. She'd made up the couch for him to sleep on, and you'd woken at midnight to coax him into your childhood twin bed. The two of you had curled up together, surrounded by the plush guardians of your childhood, giggling like teenagers.

"How have you been?" He says, looking a little guilty at the no-doubt crestfallen look on your face. "Apart from the job."

"Fine." Lonely. "Good."

"Your hair looks nice." He murmurs, "Different."

"Highlights." Your skin feels hot.

Then you see it, as he moves his hand to test the tap. The gleam on his left hand, the wide gold band unmistakable in the dim lights of the bathroom. His wedding ring. You look down at your own hand, the strip of tan already faded from your finger.

"You're still wearing it." You are unable to keep your surprise out of your voice. Arthur freezes.

"I figured we ain't divorced yet." And he begins to work again, avoiding your gaze.

"Did you get what my lawyer sent you?"

"I did." His voice is rough. "What's mine is mine, what's yours is yours."

"Yeah. Is that okay?"

"'Course. Ain't like I had much to give you in the first place."

"Should look at selling the house too." You say quietly."It's in both of our names."

"Okay."

"Will you be okay?"

"I won't be on the streets. Don't you worry."

"Arthur." You say softly.

"Don't "Arthur" me." He sounds irritable. "I know. It's fine. We can do whatever you like."

His tone makes you shudder. Suddenly, you want to cry. You want to sink to the bathroom floor and press your face into his shirt and cry.

"Okay." You whisper, and his shoulders slump. Silently, you lift yourself and walk out of the bathroom, ignoring his muttered curse.

Arthur comes out, a half hour later. You are curled on the modern leather couch, and you must brace your feet to keep from slipping off.

"S'done. Should be dry in time for tomorrow morning."

"How much do I owe you?"

"Nothin'. On the house."

"I've wasted your evening."

"Weren't a waste." Arthur hesitates, then lowers "Was good to see you."

Pulling his jacket off the rack, he shrugs it over his shoulders. The ring catches the light as he scrubs a hand over his beard.

"If I'm not paying you—there's beer in the fridge."

"Don't need you to pay me with a six-pack either." His tone is flat, but his eyes glint with humour.

"No. No, I meant, if you wanted a drink. For old time's sake."

"I wouldn't call two years old times."

"Jesus. Do you want the beer or not?"

Hesitating a second, he shrugs his jacket back off and nods.

"Glass or bottle?" You ask, digging around in your fridge.

"Bottle." He scoffs.

You open two bottles and pass one to him as he sits down on your stupid leather couch. You sit beside him, an arm's length between you. You are close enough to relearn the creases next to his eyes and the smattering of freckles on his nose. The hard set of his jaw and his pollen-gold eyelashes.

"How are John and Abigail?"

"Good. She's gonna have another baby. Girl."

"She wanted one, didn't she?"

"Yeah. John's real pleased too—even if he won't say it."

"And Jack?"

"He ain't so pleased, but he'll come 'round."

Jack, the sensitive, sometimes acidic boy you had grown so very fond of. With his books and plans to be a lawyer, and all those questions he asks you, answers you'd try to make interesting.

"He misses you," Arthur says, gulping his beer. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows it.

"I miss him." You say softly. "Hold on."

You set your beer on the table and dive into the cupboard under the bookshelf.

"I bought him this for his birthday. Before—"Before you'd served Arthur the papers. Can't live like this, won't live like this. Your cigarette butts are everywhere, and your life is a mess. I hate Dutch and the hold he's got on you. I don't love you.

The book is still wrapped with "To: Jack, From: Auntie" written in your scrawl on the front.

"It's about famous criminal trials."

"He'll like that."

"They'll be okay with it being from me?"

"'Course they will. All Abigail does is scold me for losin' you."

"I think we should talk about splitting assets too. The paintings and dishware and—"

"Take it." He says simply. "I got no use for it."

"But half of it is legally yours," You insist. "You can sell it or—"

"I don't want it." Arthur says, his voice firm.

"There's no reason to make this difficult."

"As opposed to you? You've made it real easy." The harshness makes you narrow your eyes, straighten your posture.

"Oh, God. My mother was right."

"Aw, was she?" He swallows another sip of beer. "Always liked her. Even when she said I was gonna leave you pregnant and broke."

"I'm neither of those things." You snap. "Good thing we didn't have kids, what a fucking mess that would have been."

"Yeah. 'Cause who'd want me as the father to their kids?" He spits.

"Aren't you glad it didn't come to that?"

His jaw tics, and he says nothing.

"Arthur." You turn your voice placating, and you wish. You wish it were nine months ago and you could smooth your hand over his brow and plaster the punched-in walls with a kiss. Reaching out, you lay a hand on his forearm. "Let's just do this my way. Yeah? The easy way."

Arthur looks at you for the first time since he stepped foot in your new life. His eyes are just as you remember them. Only, they are resigned. None of the hot light of battle that used to enter them—the thrill of a skirmish.

"Alright, sweetheart." He breathes. "The easy way."

He touches your hand where it rests on his arm, and you almost withdraw it.

Arthur's eyes follow the line of your bare shoulder, where the shirt slips down, and the curve of your thigh as you hike one foot onto the couch. His eyes flicker to your hand, your thumb caressing his weathered skin.

Arthur lifts his arm, and as natural as breathing, as unthinking as walking, you scoot down the couch and curl into his side. His arms go around you immediately, his breath stirring your hair. Placing his hand on your bare calf, he pulls it forward so you are half in his lap, your head tucked against his collarbone. Reaching for his hand, you bring it up to look at the ring.

"Should take it off." You murmur into his shoulder.

"We ain't divorced yet." Arthur's voice is firm. You prop yourself up a little, staring at long memorised scars on his chin,

"No." Your mouth brushes one, his stubble grazing you. "No, we aren't."

Arthur's hand smooths up your thigh, the tips of his fingers brushing where it meets your ass, under your sleep shorts. The calloused pads of his fingers brushing your soft skin there.

Then, your neck is bent back over his arm, and he is kissing you with all the feverish intensity of the long separation. Your fingers come to brush the soft hair falling over his cheek and ears, to thumb the feathery silk of his thick eyebrows and to fit your nose against the notch in his. You bring his trembling hand up, beneath your shirt to curve at your breast. The cool metal of the ring makes you shudder as he nudges your jaw to kiss your neck.

"Arthur." You gasp as his teeth graze your fluttering pulse. His hand squeezes at your breast, so hard that you are sure it will burst like overripe fruit in the crushing force of his palm. Your breathy whine slips out, and he gentles. Murmuring, he kisses gently at your cheek, your eyes.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to." His thumb strokes against the side of it, circling the hardened nipple. "Want you so bad. I missed you fuckin' much."

"Touch me." You gasp, guiding his hand down into your shorts and making him feel the leaking mess of your cunt. He shuts his eyes and groans into your neck. The two of you find yourselves horizontal on the couch, your foot braced against the arm to keep from sliding off.

Arthur buries his face in the junction of your shoulder, pressing the heel of his palm into your sopping cunt, soaking the gusset of your shorts.

"Will you let me?"

"Let you?" You shove at his flannel, undoing the buttons with clumsy fingers, only to be met with the barrier of his T-shirt underneath it.

"Eat your cunt." He groans. "Please. I missed it so much."

You are already shoving the shorts down, and he is pulling his t-shirt over his blonde-streaked head to slide onto his knees next to the couch.

"Arthur." You whisper as he drags you forward so his breath hits your fluttering cunt.

"Shh. Darlin'. M'gonna eat you out now." Arthur looks up at you, pupils blown wide and his hair falling into his eyes. He pushes it away impatiently. "Gonna make you cry."

"Okay." You whimper. "Okay, Arthur."

Bending his head, he breathes hot air into the soft parting of your cunt. Carefully, he reached between your legs and parted your cunt down the centre. You whine, arching off the couch and into his mouth. He buries his face between your legs, groaning loudly, his beard scrapes against your thighs and down the sensitive centre. Pushing at his head, you mumble for him to be gentle, but he does not take heed of this.

"She missed me, didn't she?" Showing you mercy for one second, he pulls his face away, panting. Arthur runs the tip of his finger down the fluttering red centre of your cunt, fluid streaming from it. "Look at how wet you are."

"I missed you." You mumble, head lolling back on the couch.

"I'll make it all better", He mutters, feverish with want. Arthur takes your ankles and draws them over his shoulders, the muscles in his freckled back rippling with the movement. "I'll fix it."

Bending his head to you again, he drags his tongue down your centre,e and you clutch his hair, twisting it around your fingers, nails scratching his scalp. He grunts, and the harsh noise of his zipper cuts through the fog in your mind.

"Fuck me." You whine as he closes one hand around the meat of your thigh and grazes his teeth against your clit.

"No", Arthur presses a kiss to the bone of your hip" No, you don't want that."

"I want it." You mumble. "I want it so bad."

"You don't." His voice is firm; he presses a big hand to your belly, pushing you back down. "Just lonely. You don't want me. Not really."

Arthur releases your calf and reaches down, palming the heavy bulge in his jeans.

"Arthur, please." Whining, you press your palm to your hot face. "You're so hard. Please."

He shakes his head, strands of hair falling into his eyes and buries his face between your legs again, licking and sucking till you cry out his name, again and again. When you lift your head, he leans back on his ankles at your feet. Slowly, he leans forward and presses the softest of kisses to the round of your kneecap.

"Please." You whisper, and clutching at his shoulder, drag him up from the rug. Arthur draws close to you, his muscles straining. Like a magnet, always pulled north. You lie back on the couch, and he straddles your legs. Fingers trembling, you catch the hem of your shirt and pull it up to your belly. His eyes go dark, and he leans down to press a kiss to every inch of skin revealed. When you finally reach your breasts, you tuck the hem under your chin. Arthur takes one nipple into his mouth and sucks hard.

"Missed these too." He slurs. "Thought about 'em all the time. Thought about doin' this," He bites one gently, making you squirm. "Thought about fucking them too."

Hooking one leg around his hip, he sinks into you. Grinding the bulge of his cock against your thigh. The denim chafes against your overwrought pussy, and he grunts as you reach between your bodies to palm it.

"I got off to it." His mumbles. "You left your underwear in the laundry, and I jerked off to you. I missed you so much."

"Please fuck me." You look up at his flushed back, cupping him in your hand.

"No." He repeats, voice cracking. "You'll regret it."

"I won't. I promise I won't."

"You'll hate me." He groans.

Arthur has an iron will, stronger than your own. You learned this long ago.

"Let me touch it." You whisper. "And then—you can touch me."

Arthur stills, stomach pressed to yours. It quivers with his breaths.

"Just to make it stop." You take your hand and stroke his face, his hair. "Then we can—it'll be a clean break."

"A clean break," Arthur murmurs, and with one hand, he cradles your jaw. Nodding, you suck his thumb into your mouth.

The carousel of your mind is spinning at a dangerous speed. Arthur furrows his brow. He gives in, fumbling with the button of his jeans over the give of his belly. He's so hard, painfully so. You can tell by the way he squeezes a hand around himself, fluid leaking from the tip in a pearly drip. You replace his hand with yours, and Arthur flattens his palm over your belly before returning the favour. The hard flick of his thumb against your clit makes you wince. You stroke upwards, and his eyes scrunch.

Arthur dips his index finger into your cunt and the passage is slick, eased by his mouth. `You hold him in your hand, stroking rhythmically and relearning the veins and ridges of him. Your mouth waters. How good he felt inside of you, all the way up to your ribs. A home, fucked for himself over and over in those tumultuous two years. This was always good, though. A shared language. Any hurt could be soothed with just a touch. Until it could not, until your life together had haemorrhaged and you could not resurrect it.

"Wait." He mutters distantly as you shove your ruined panties aside, guiding the tip of him to rub against you. "Wait—I. We said—"

"I know. I know." Your voice comes out high. "Just rubbing. Don't go inside."

Arthur is kissing you now, his maw opened over yours and the tip of his cock prodding the slick entrance of your cunt. You buck your hips so he sinks in, parting a little, and his teeth gnash.

"I'm gonna come." He grunts. "I'm sorry. I can't stop."

Arthur comes, hot spurts against the soft wet of your cunt. He groans miserably, and his head drops to your shoulder. Blindly, you reach up to tangle your fingers in his damp hair. To stroke his shoulders, relaxed in pleasure. It only lasts a moment. You are left on the couch, dazed. Arthur stands on your carpet, comes on his belly, and his beard is damp with your spit and slick. Turning his head away from you, he tucks himself back into his jeans. You press your cheek to the throw pillow and watch him. The fuzz of hair on his stomach and chest and the way his muscles ripple when he pulls the undershirt over his head. Buttoning his flannel, he looks at you.

"I'll sign them papers, now."

[kentluv3r]

lying to BOXER! JASON TODD about being a virgin… so don’t be surprised when you cum so easy!

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 CONTENT WARNINGS: lying about virginity, overstimulationnnn, teasing! boxer! jason todd, MINORS DNI ノ fem! virgin! reader, gentle sex, dirty talk, technical virginity loss, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, praise kink, tiny bit of a strength kink!

AUTHOR’S NOTE: sorry, I’ve been on a boxer! jason todd high so muchhhhh, I just love him, sorry not sorry! this is inspired by the hot concept of men lying about being virgins and cumming prematurely but make it reader because lowkey? it’s just an excuse for jason to abuse that pussy 🫠 dare i say i have knight/medieval! jason todd in the works rn cause finn bennett as aerion targaryen awoken my soul for knight! characters.

honestly, you weren’t that much of a liar.

you didn’t like to lie— there was something weird about it. something weird about looking someone in the face and lying your ass off. you only lied a couple of times about small things; being sick, not wanting to go on a date, not wanting to hang out… simple things. not things like this.

and to be completely and utterly honest; you didn’t exactly stop lying when it came to getting into bed with jason todd.

you knew who he was— a famous boxer with too many wins to count, but you acted oblivious to his boxing resume when he first approached to you at a small diner. he found you attractive when he was eating with his big brother, dick— yes. his name is dick, doesn’t like going by richard— and dick encouraged him to approach you. so you shared your number with him and began to text him.

things fell into place and a month of talking… he invited you to one of his fights. a big boxing fight, he’s the biggest name on the card. and watching from the third row as jason knocked his opponent out in the third round… you knew damn well what was going to happen later that night.

the problem? you were not quite… experienced at sex.

you have masturbated, you have touched yourself and have used sex toys on yourself. you’ve kissed people in high school and you’ve let them touch you up… but nothing as far as that. just, it hasn’t happened naturally. it wasn’t some weird obligation thing, you weren’t saving yourself for marriage or for anyone special… it just didn’t feel right any time it came down to it, so now? as a hard working adult seeing this boxer? you knew damn well you’d have to face it.

so after celebrating jason’s win at his favorite local burger place— always feeling his rough hand on yours even as you ate, you brought him to your place… and of course, when two hot people who are very attracted to each other are alone… things get hot and steamy.

he got you over the finish line with ease the moment his mouth sucked on your clit, flicking his tongue up and down and using two of his fingers in your tight cunt to cum, eating the cum off his fingers with glee as clothes came off, hair was pulled, and jason was stroking his cock with lube (mixed with a little bit of your own cum cause how could he not?).

“jason… mhm…” you whisper, your legs already spread on the bed as your hands clasped in the bedsheets. you couldn’t lie; you were absolutely nervous.

sure, you’ve played with yourself before— you’ve stuck a dildo in your cunt a couple of times. you know what it feels like to be stretched by a silicone toy that was listed as six inches long and was about five and a half inches… but this was different.

this was a real dick, a real cock attached to a very attractive boxer that you just happened to get the attention of.

jason smiled down at you as his right hand stayed on his seven inch cock, his left hand gently stroking up and down your leg as his body keeps your legs open. “you’re pretty, baby.” he whispers, leaning down and kissing your left knee. “such a cute girl… all spread f’me…”

your face heats up internally at his compliments, it felt good to be flirted with, especially by jason with his stupidly hot voice and his demeanor. “jason, mhm…” you respond back, mentally preparing yourself for how this is gonna feel— it’s just like a dildo, the stretch and the feeling, you could handle it; of course you can!

jason lined his tip up with your folds and leaned down, kissing your lips and whispering against your lips. “if you can’t handle it, tell me sweetheart, ain’t trying to hurt you, promise.”

you nod your head, wrapping both arms around his neck. “of course, jay… now fuck me.” oh the confidence you have.

he smiles at your words and press against your cunt, his tip feeling the warmness of your cunt as you seemingly let him in with no problem. he’s slow to push into you, being oh so gentle with his hips as his left hand digs into the bed, his right hand pressed on top of your abdomen as he’s careful with his ease into you.

and fuck fuck fuck— it feels so good. it feels too good.

you could barely feel anything else besides jason stretching you with his cock— naturally, this felt different than the dildo, the skin of jason’s cock different than the silicone. he was so much better and thicker than the toy, warmer than the toy as well— everything felt overwhelming that you didn’t know if you could handle much more… and the pathetic part was that he was only three inches in, he still had four more inches to go and you already feel like this.

“jason! jason! oh fuckkkkk, jayyyy.” you moan out, fingers digging into the back of his neck, your pussy fluttering ‘round him as your toes curled in the air. “s-so good… so full… oh fuck.”

he smiles above you as he kisses your moaning lips, gently continuing his movements, taking your moans as good enough to keep moving. “good girl… taking me so fuckin’ well, bet this pussy misses being treated so good.”

yeah; my pussy has never been treated any which way, but obviously— you couldn’t fucking say that, so you just moan in response, vibrating against his skin.

you felt so warm inside, you couldn’t stop your pleasure from climbing just by him pushing into you and his lips on your skin, you just couldn’t help it. it felt too fucking good.

not knowing what to do— you couldn’t stop yourself, and with barely three thrusts in… you felt yourself slipping over the same edge that his mouth brought you over. his hips don’t sputter once, his face hidden in your neck as he pressed kisses in your neck— your eyes rolling back as your nails dug into his biceps.

it felt so fucking good, your pussy was fluttering and you felt pleasure push and flow through your veins.

jason mutters a curse as he watches you, star struck by your expression and almost surprised— he’s not mean about his expression either, he’s shocked he was able to make you cum this fast… “oh baby, you already cummed?” he questions, leaning down and pressing a kiss on your lips. “good to know i make you feel this good.”

“ah— ah! oh fuck, jay!” you moan in overstimulation, back arching off the bed and pressing your breasts against his broad chest. “ah— ‘m sorry! ‘m sorry… didn’t me-mean to.”

jason looks at you with soft eyes that even makes you tear up, leaning down and kissing your cheek. “don’t apologize f’me baby, don’t ever apologize for cumming so beautifully.” he encourages, continuing his thrusts even with your orgasm melting through you. “this pussy loves me, huh?”

your fingers digs down into his back as you whine, breathing deep as jason continues to ruin you. “jay— jay, c’can’t take it— oh fuck… oh fuck!”

“you’re taking it great baby, just hold out f’me, hun, you’ll feel good again.” he whispers, kissing your lips.

the kiss is sloppy and barely there on your side, but you try to kiss him again, heat overtaking your entire body as overstimulation slowly subsidies and suddenly feeling that same build up as last time.

you whimper against his lips as your hands both thread through his messy black hair, nails yanking on him as you feel his cock drag against your walls again, his balls slapping against your cunt.

he moans as you squeeze around him, both hands holding onto your thighs. “beautiful girl… betcha you need to cum again, huh?”

nodding your head, you bite into his shoulder, the pain of the overstimulation and the pleasure of your orgasm ruins you before you could confirm anything to him; your eyes rolling back and the scream of his name gives him the confirmation.

you just cummed again and he’s looking at you like a fucking angel on this earth.

“there you go… cum, cum all over my shit, baby.” he encourages. “lemme see this pretty face fucking wrecked for me again.”

maybe lying about your virginity to your boyfriend was the best idea ever, cause it got you fucked like this!

masterlist is here! click here for more!

ⓘ KENTLUV3R’S WORK. all my fanfics (not the characters) is my very own, coming from my own efforts and my time. do not copy my work, rewrite it, shove it through an ai machine and shit out slop, and don’t repost to wattpad/ao3/c.ai!

[patientofarkhamasylum]

a job well done husband!dick grayson x reader

summary: dick fixes things around the house and pretends he isn't waiting for you to notice. you always do. tags: domestic fluff, love languages (acts of service, words of affirmation), praise, pet names, emotional intimacy, dick needs reassurance wc: 1.1k

There’s a certain way Dick acts when he’s done something for you and is waiting for you to notice. He likes to think he plays it cool, but subtlety has never been his strong suit, least of all with you.

One afternoon, you walk into the kitchen and find the cabinet door that has been hanging crooked for the past month sitting perfectly flush on its hinges. You open it, close it, then open it again. It no longer scrapes against the cabinet beside it or makes the low, miserable groan you had started to accept as part of your daily life. It swings the way it’s supposed to and clicks shut with a clean, satisfying sound.

Dick's standing at the counter eating an apple, doing his best impression of casual. When you glance at him, he takes a very deliberate bite and looks out the window.

“Did you fix this?” you ask.

“Hm?” He turns as though he had forgotten you were there. “Oh. The cabinet? Maybe.”

You open and close it once more. “It works really well now.”

His eyes flick toward you before returning quickly to the window. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

Dick lowers the apple slightly, and you bite back a smile as you cross the kitchen and stop in front of him. His eyes are doing that thing they do when he wants your praise but refuses to ask for it, bright and watchful and a little too fixed on your face.

“You did a good job, baby.”

Dick grins. He sets the apple down and places his hands loosely at your hips, his thumbs brushing over your shirt. “It was bothering you.”

“I know.”

“So obviously I had to fix it.”

You run your fingers through his hair, pushing a few strands away from his forehead. They fall right back, so you smooth them away again. “You take such good care of me.”

Dick doesn’t answer. His smile stays, but it changes, growing softer and less certain. His gaze drops to where his hands rest against your hips. You’ve seen this before. Tell him he’s handsome and he laughs. Tell him he’s clever, capable, impressive, and he soaks it up without shame. But tell him he’s good to you, and suddenly he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

You slide your hand from his hair to his cheek. “Look at me.”

He does.

“I mean it,” you say softly. “You’re always looking out for me.”

Dick leans into your palm. “I try.”

You rise onto your toes and kiss his forehead, then one cheek, then the other. Dick closes his eyes for each one, leaning into every kiss as his arms settle more securely around your waist. When you scratch lightly at the nape of his neck, he lowers his head until his forehead rests against your shoulder. You fold your arms around him and hold him there.

Everywhere else, Dick is so capable, so sure of himself. He throws himself from rooftops without hesitation, walks into danger smiling, and makes impossible things look effortless. Then he comes home to you and folds himself into your arms, still carrying the cruel lie he learned far too young: that being loved meant being useful, and that he was only enough when he had something to give.

You comb your fingers gently through his hair. "You’re such a good husband," you murmur.

For a moment, Dick doesn’t move. Then his arms tighten around your waist, and he presses his face more firmly into your shoulder, as though he can hide what the words have done to him. But you feel the unsteady breath he lets out against your neck. You feel his fingers curl into the back of your shirt.

You kiss his temple. “You are.”

Dick stays there for a few more seconds before finally lifting his head. His expression is painfully open, all his practiced confidence stripped away.

“You’re really happy with me?” he asks.

The question breaks your heart a little because he asks it so quietly, as though the answer could be anything but yes.

You cradle his face in both hands. “So happy.”

“Even when I’m annoying?”

“You’re always annoying.”

His mouth falls open. “Wow.”

You kiss the tip of his nose. “And I still adore you.”

The mock offense fades from his face, which you keep between your hands. “You make this place feel like home,” you tell him. “You make every bad day easier. You know when I need to laugh and when I just need you to sit with me. You listen to me. You’re patient with me. You notice things I don’t even know how to ask for.”

“Baby.”

“You love every part of me, even the parts I’m still learning how to love myself.”

“Always.” The word leaves him so quickly, with such certainty, that your throat tightens. Dick may wonder whether he is enough for you, but never whether he loves you.

He lifts you onto the edge of the counter and settles between your knees. You go willingly, wrapping your arms around his shoulders as he buries his face against you again. He draws you close until there’s no space left between you, and you rub slow circles between his shoulder blades.

You stay that way until his breathing evens out and the last of the tension leaves his shoulders.

After a while, his voice comes muffled against you. “I fixed the bathroom door too.”

You smile into his hair. “Did you?”

“The lock works now.”

“You’ve been busy.”

“And the towel rack was loose, so I tightened that.”

You lean back to look at him. “Are you fishing for more compliments?”

“No.” He looks almost offended by the accusation, which would be more convincing if he weren’t fighting a smile.

You kiss him, slow and sweet, one hand holding his cheek while the other stays curled in his hair. When you pull away, Dick follows your mouth for another kiss. You give him that one too, then another when he chases you again.

“Very impressive, handsome,” you murmur against his lips.

His grin returns in full, and he looks more like himself again.

You shake your head. “You are shameless.”

“I also re-caulked the tub.”

You laugh and bury your face against his neck. Dick holds you closer, pressing a kiss into your hair. “I love you,” he murmurs.

You turn your face just enough to kiss the corner of his mouth. “I love you too.”

Dick’s gaze slowly drifts toward the hallway. “So, about that tub.” He looks back at you. “Want me to run you a bath?”

You stare at him. Of course. Dick can’t go five minutes without finding some new way to take care of you.

“Only if you get in with me,” you say, and you barely finish the sentence before Dick is pulling you off the counter.

navi | m.list | © 2026 patientofarkhamasylum. all rights reserved.

a/n: not entirely sure how i feel about this one ngl, but the idea was too cute not to share. also! i’m thinking of finally starting a taglist 😋 if you’re interested in being added, pls comment here and lmk whether you wanna be tagged for all characters or only specific ones! i currently write for bruce, jason, dick, tim, and clark. i’ll make a dedicated taglist post soon, but i figured i’d start here <3

[sirisell]

Me & Who

[honeysucklewatr]

should’ve told you

angst | fluff | “it’s okay to love them both”

synopsis: jason todd swept you right off your feet, until he couldn’t handle how close you got to him. but his brother doesn’t act the same way when you meet him at a college bar so why can’t you stop thinking of jason?

tags: angst, fluff, reader knows jason first but he’s emotionally and idiot apparently. dick doesn’t know they used to talk. suggestive. eventual smut.

a/n: there is absolutely no overlap in their talking or relationship. jason is terrible at communication here and dick is oblivious. #iloveyoujasontodd

if tenderness could be personified, it would whisper jason todd’s name. and if love could pierce your soul, you’d feel his arms around your heart, clenching to pump through your veins.

that’s how much he convinced you of it in the last four months you’d known him. it was almost immediate how you knew you’d like him, and he made him clear with his actions that he felt the same. though you quickly realized that while his words were enough to penetrate your thoughts profoundly, he didn’t know how to put emotions in relation to how he was. he only used humour.

jason peter todd held the key to every good and every bad because he was the most human anyone could get. his hands clasped around yours on that cold summer night. fighting the urge to just pull you into his lap and share his warmth because you were his brothers girl. the one that met him at a gala before jason saw you there. but grayson didn’t know you’d seen jason at that coffee shop first. that he’d ordered something off the menu thinking it was a black coffee but really it was an americano with two lumps of syrup and he grimaced when he drank it. or that he softened when he saw you laugh and point to the menu that no one ever really bought that drink. how his eyes crinkled when you made him a new drink and how he thanked you generously when you told him he didn’t have to pay because he wasn’t used to this.

no one found out that jason would come to your shop often then, bringing his cheeky humour and his roughened edges that you’d dulled. you’d take your breaks around the same time everyday and he’d be sure to be there, sit with you by the patio and talk about the future he knew was uncertain. how his hands would linger near yours but never close enough to really touch. just warmth radiating.

the two of you walked home a few times. only when you casually mentioned you lived close by. he frowned and shook his head at you like you were the innocently naive, saying.

“gotham is dangerous and she is evil, but she’ll love you if you protect yourself, y’know?” He watches you blink at him before he shoots you a smile. “i’ll be back to walk you. wait for me.”

and he did walk you home everyday for the following few weeks.

jason was hesitant on touching you, always needing some reassurance to do so but when he finally took the courage and kissed you, it felt like sparks flew. his palms were clenched tight while he leaned you backwards, just enough for your back to arch. then you guided them to you hips and they found their way around.

he put one of his hands on the small of your back while he changed his tempo, lips curving around yours as he held you closer. desperately, he pressed himself to you, keeping you there like you’d run. god, you wouldn’t dream of running. but that was that. you kissed once and it was insanely good. he’d grown into your mouth and touch your hair like he needed more. you’d feel the weight of him, unmistakable against your body, warm and heavy.

then he disappeared again for a few days.

but by the eighth week, he came by your house when you were off, lounging on your couch. giant t-shirt draping over your body as you ate takeout from the box. he opened the window and let himself in, crawling inside like it was hard to do.

you ran to him, of course you did. grabbing his arm more roughly than intended, you draped it over your shoulder and lugged the man to his feet. pulling him with immense difficulty to the couch and dropping him there to run wordlessly and grab the first aid kit before panicking when you sat.

“i—fuck, what happened? who did this?” rasping as you sat on your knees to clean the cuts on his face. “are you hurt anywhere else? should i take you to the hospital?”

he grabs your wrist when you reach for your phone and brings it to your chest. “no,” the it’s almost a breathless gasp. “please don’t.”

you nod slowly as you start to pull up his shirt and cut through the fabric. not entirely sure what to do but trying nonetheless to help the regular you’d been silently crushing on for the last month. cleaning up the slash on his abdomen and watching his face contort when you put ointment and a bandage. you watch as he falls asleep and his lips part in his sleep. hands reaching out for you when you stand and his eyes still closed, he whispers your name in a sigh.

“thank you ma.”

you let him sleep off whatever the hell it was and wash the blood from your hands despite the shakiness it presented. you shower silently and then the evening over in your mind. nearly forgetting that this man passed out in your couch had gotten into your apartment though you’d never brought him up with you. he’d only walked you to the building. part of you was terrified of him but the other part was worried. you check on him repeatedly on the night but when you see his breathing has evened out, you head back to your room after dealing a blanket over him. you fall asleep unwillingly with your bedroom door locked and a desk in front of it.

when you wake in the morning, he’s gone with all traces of himself with it.

jason doesn’t come by for days later though you don’t stop looking for him. the stain you swore was on your couch is cleaned and the seat he took in the shop was cold. he hadn’t gotten his bitter drink from you in a while and despite his sudden appearance at your place, you miss him.

you look for him even though a part of your brain was nagging you to stop. you ask your coworkers, and even your manager for camera access, they all say no. people say they don’t even remember him, and you start to feel crazy.

did you imagine him?

but when you go to the library by your place to study, you see him hunched over a copy of animal farm and oversized hoodie engulfing him. not even a minute goes by before he sees you too. though to your surprise, he comes up to you.

“hey,” his voice the same strong yet unsure tone that you grew to love.

“hey,” continuing to flip brought your page and sparing him a short glance. “haven’t seen you in a while.”

he sighs and sets his book down at your desk, pulling a chair out to sit next to you. “i’m sorry. i haven’t come by i just didn’t know how to apologize.”

you blink at him, “apologize for what? scaring me shitless and then disappearing without letting me know you were okay? fuck you dude.”

“wait,” grasping his long fingers around your wrist when you try to get up to leave. “i didn’t know where else to go. just let me explain. please?”

his eyes shone with a gentle sheen of wetness that showed his sincerity. the nagging disappeared as you listened to him and nodded, letting him lead you to the corner of the library.

only then does he tell you about his family. about the way the life has treated him like a punching bag and how the man that he thought was protecting him wasn’t willing to take all of the risks. he told you about how he wanted to fix this place for good. how all of the bad people seem to keep winning and that he didn’t want to be part of that anymore. he started to see how his anger was always warranted, and how the world had turned their back on him. the love that fostered over these last few weeks only bloomed further.

noticing how his eyes flicker across your face or how he watched, you take a drag of a cigarette when you stood outside. the both of you had become accustomed to one another, and the familiarity of his gaze didn’t burn, but it warmed you up. It was no surprise when he finally let his eyes fall to your lips. though he was taking aback when you took the initiative and pressed his hovering hands onto your hips.

then you kissed him and it felt like church bells rang in his mind as he lost all resemblance of himself. jason walked you back to the brick wall and pressed you there, hand caressing your cheek as you moaned softly into his mouth. he swallowed it down and shivered when you bit his lip. his strong hands lifted you up and he deepened the kiss, slowly grinding his lips back into yours when you shifted you hips against him. the moment gets heated when you drop your fingers to wiggle at his belt, letting the metal clink and fall open before he reluctantly pulls back. his breath warm and heady as he gasps for air and rubs your cheek with his free hand.

“no,” breathlessly gasping. “i can’t do this to you.”

furrowing your brows at the implication of his words, you shake your head. “do what?”

“this,” he says quickly before gently moving you off of him so he could move away. “touching you.”

entirely confused by his sudden change you only take a couple steps backwards too. hand coming up to touch your lips like it could hold his memory there. jason seems to notice and moves in a little closer.

“i have done bad things in my life. i’ve hurt people because i was angry and i’ve lost control more times than i could remember.” he rasps. “i don’t want to do that to you. i can’t do that to you.”

you can’t help but scoff. “i’m a grown woman jason and you’re the one who broke into my apartment bleeding and ran away before we could discuss it.”

“and i shouldn’t have done that.” he sighs. “i shouldn’t have involved you.”

this time you press on. the tension between you unbearable as you yearn for the touch of his skin. “maybe i want to be involved.”

an incredulous laugh escapes him as he shakes his head. “you are not involved.”

crossing your arms over your chest in defiance, “i think a guy showing up in the middle of the night, bleeding all over my living room makes me involved.”

“it doesn’t. trust me, you don’t want any part of this life. you’re just gonna get hurt.” he argues back.

squinting your eyes at him, you sigh. “let me worry about myself.”

“i can’t.”

“that’s not really my problem now is it?”

jason takes a moment to look you from eye to eye. “listen to me. you are not apart of this.”

“and you listen to me jason.” you reply quickly wanting him to understand without realizing how both your voices had risen. “you made me a part of this the day you walked into the shop.”

“yeah and i regret that!” the words escape him before he can think about how it could hurt.

your lips part and your brows had a soft furrow in them. a breathless gasp slips in shock. “you don’t mean that.”

“i do mean that.” doubling down on his words. “it was idiotic of me to involve you and i shouldn’t have brought some civilian girl into this so let’s just forget it ever happened.”

trying not to show how your heart crumbled, you take a couple backward steps. you watch as his face contorts and returns back to its original form.

“i thought...” you trail off when he finishes it for you.

“you thought i was the boyfriend type?” he throws back more harshly than he needed to. “that i’d be all loving and mushy? that’s not me and that’ll never be me so just drop it.”

he didn’t take the words back. he didn’t try to stop you from believing what he said was true. he wanted you to believe it and part of you did even if most of you was screaming that he was trying to protect you. deep down you knew this was his coping mechanism. this was how he saved you both even if it meant sacrificing himself.

but mostly, a deep rooted sense of distain took for him. this was cowardice. this was a kind of protection that you never asked for and it was all his fault. he was the one to involve you in this in the first place and now he was blaming you for trying. now part of you was blaming yourself for letting yourself believe that this could’ve been something.

a soft sigh escaped you as you slowly nod your head at him. “right.”

turning around and walking back towards where your things sat. You collect your belongings and leave without another word letting him ponder on his own if that’s what he was even really doing. You decide then and there you won’t look for him, but this was not something that you needed to weigh heavy on your mind. So many other responsibilities had already taken form in your life and here he was making it harder for the both of you.

the following weeks you find yourself, looking for traces of him in mundane things. orders of black coffees with no milk and no sugar you find yourself thinking of him. leather jackets and cargo pants seem to bring you to his attire.

you accidentally cut your hand cooking dinner on the third month and the blood droplets seem to capture you. Why did they take you back to him? Why couldn’t he have just been a normal guy?

You try to throw yourself back into the thick of everything else. Your friends invite you out for parties for birthdays and you don’t skip any of them. You go out for lunch you take them to dinner and inevitably you go to a bar.

You tell yourself that this is gonna pass and that you just need to find someone to take your mind off of the guy, the mysterious one, who broke your heart without ever really knowing him.

That’s when you meet him—Dick Grayson.

His dark luscious hair and his beautiful piercing eyes. He was the life of the party. He is everything that you needed to pull you out of the slump. There’s something faintly reminds you of someone else you pushed that feeling and that thought down and instead you let him buy you a drink. And then another. And then another. When he goes in for a kiss, you pull back and you’re not even sure why.

This gorgeous guy was trying to get with you and here you were thinking of some idiot who left you high and dry at a public library.

When you go to work a coffee bar at some fancy gala, there Dick is again.

only this time he’s lost that sleazy unbuttoned shirt that he was wearing at the bar and it’s been replaced by a sleek neatly tucked in suit. one that looked like it costs double what your rent is for the month. you tell yourself you’re not being a look at him you’re not even gonna give him satisfaction or yourself the heartbreak even if that wasn’t even a sure thing.

But he’s the one to approach you and all you really wanted was a distraction.

“well hello gorgeous. i didn’t think i’d see you so soon.”

you blink up at him, hand still holding a half made drink as you awkwardly smile. somehow dick finds entire thing endearing and he gets you out from behind the table, pulling your apron off and leaving the banquet entirely. charming as ever, it doesn’t take much for him to convince you to follow along and fall into his advances.

slowly, he makes his way into your life too. but the difference is dick pulls you into his, bringing you gifts and lavish things that you’d never really cared for. he invited you to parties that aren’t your scene and he introduces you to his friends.

when he kisses you, it’s hunger and delight. it’s on your way back to his apartment, when the both of you had a little too much to drink at one of bruce’s galas.

his hands reach yours while you walk and he brings you closer by your waist. fingers lingering by your hip when he says your name quietly. when you turn to look at him, he presses his lips to yours, soft and plump. it’s teeth and lips when he pushes you against the door, desperate hands trailing down your waistband when he tries to feel your underwear through the silky dress. you gasp his name into his mouth and press your hand to his chest. a small whisper of a not yet, that he nods and takes like it was no big deal.

yet here you were, yearning for something more difficult. something more devastating that you felt guilty for taking this moment for granted. there’s no explicit label on the two of you, but the message is clear to everyone around you and him alike.

you’re his girl.

months go by like this, where nothing progressed beyond sitting in his lap, kissing him hard and apologizing when he wanted more. but dick was patient and he was understanding and he waited.

now you’re sat at another one of the many galas you’d attended in the last year and dick is busy chatting away a group of stupidly rich people. conversing with them like he’s meant to and slyly receiving touches and remarks about his looks that should’ve made you angry or jealous. but you never were. his personality was flirty as is and you didn’t care that other people appreciated how attractive he was. if anything it was like a compliment.

coddling a fruity drink in his hand and another to gesture wildly, dick laughed all evening and secured a couple of deals for his fathers company. the company he’d never truly elaborate on so you wouldn’t know why he was away at odd times in the night. or why he sometimes got phone calls mid-date and needed to leave for a while before texting you that he’s sorry he can’t make it.

somehow, none of it really mattered. part of you knew that dick grayson wasn’t yours.

by the time you get to the manor with dick, he’s wasted and bubbly enough to be looser. though it amplifies his flirty personality and he spends the limo ride home kissing down your neck, leaving marks that you definitely didn’t want to stay. you tilt your head for him and hum his name.

“gray, you’re gonna leave a mark.” you hum even as your eyes roll in pleasure.

“i want to leave plenty.” groaning against your neck as the car stops by the house.

he reaches over and pulls the window up to hide from the rear view mirror, and pulls you up onto his lap. the plush of flesh in his hands are kneaded as he shifts your hips against him. minutes go by like this, friction burning between you as his dark dark sticks to his forehead from how much he was working himself up.

“can we?” he rasps, not needing to say the whole thing before you already understand.

you pull away to look at him and see the desperation etched on his face. part of you wants to give him what he wants, to finally give in to that temptation but the rest of you says to wait for some reason you couldn’t understand.

here was this gorgeous man, sculpted like a greek god with his perfect teeth and his chiseled jaw. he was beautiful and everything anyone could ever want, but you couldn’t just say yes.

“you’re drunk,” you state, pulling yourself off of him and opening the door. “let’s go inside and sleep this off.”

he groans like it hurts when you pull him out but his hands. “hasn’t anyone ever told you how much it hurts when you don’t take care of it?”

you hum and bring his face closer to yours as you walk to the door. hand settled low on his back as he holds himself up with an arm around your shoulders.

“nice try dickie. you can help yourself when you take a cold shower.” kissing his cheek as you shut the door behind you.

coherent enough to hold himself upright, he huffs softly and then smiles. leaning over to kiss your lips again, pecking like he was soothing himself before nodding and pulling off his shoes. from across the corridor you could hear a faint sound coming from a television. low enough to be mistaken for sounds of the house.

dick guides you further into the house by your waist and settles his hand by your hip when you reach the living room. along the way you leave you purse on the counter, phone tucked inside it as you start to see the black haired man sitting on the couch, facing the television.

“took you long enough dick head.” the man’s voice echos with barely concealed annoyance. “you were supposed to help cass tonight.”

dick sighs as he walks himself to the kitchen to grab a beer. “i told her i had to go to bruce’s thing. she’s old enough to patrol on her own now.”

“well duke had to go and—” cutting himself off as he stands and turns his body to where you stood. his eyes widening as he sees you there, standing in a pretty dress and a softly dishevelled appearance, as though perfectly imperfect.

jason’s lips part at you, and you take in the look on his face as one of disbelief. something in his appearance had shifted in the months you hadn’t seen him. something about his face had gotten more mature and intense. like he’s seen a couple things more than from when you last saw him and he looked tired.

“—you shouldn’t be out doing that shit right now anyways. bruce told you to lay low after what happened last time.” dick says as he takes a swig of his beer.

when he noticed how you and jason were looking at eachother, he looks between you. quickly you break the eye contact, but jason doesn’t.

“oh jason, this is my girlfriend.” dick says your name. “this is my brother, jason.”

girlfriend. you nearly grimace at the name he calls you but somehow keep it inside. mentally you’re cursing yourself for not meeting his family before this happened. had you known that they were related you would’ve never even spoken to them. you would’ve never started to talk to Dick in the first place. now you’re stuck in this awkward position where you have to tell the guy you’ve been seeing casually for the past couple of months that hey I actually used to have a huge crush on your brother and I actually made out with him and sometimes I imagine his face on yours. 

well, maybe not the whole thing. he probably doesn’t need to know all of the details.

your mind is going a million miles a minute and you can’t even think about what you’re supposed to do next. do you shake his hand? or maybe you’re supposed to stand frozen like you have been for the past 30 seconds.

but then jason raises his hand, and offers it out to you like it’s the easiest thing. he smiles softly.

“hey, i’m jason.”

somehow this option didn’t even occur to you and it was the one that burned the most.

you offer your hand as well and let him take yours in it, shaking it really really softly. almost intimate if anyone was looking too hard, and thankfully, dick was inebriated enough just to not notice that part.

“hey,” you offer back and repeat your name, trying to forget how bitter it tasted on you tongue right now. he holds your hand for a moment longer than necessary, and you find yourself looking into his eyes like you didn’t know him completely already.

“he’s gonna be staying here for a while since his apartment has roaches and shit.” dick pats jason’s back and still doesn’t notice how he couldn’t pry his eyes off of you. “his rooms across from mine.”

his grip tightens ever so slightly when you try to pull it away.

“guess we’ll be seeing a lot of eachother.” jason says with a gaze on you that could light a thousand fires in your soul.

this was going to be a long, long summer. 

[honeysucklewatr]

continued taglist (2): @soomxsss @akusuincoffee @bloodmoonbat @j3l1y-b34n @alexdelray1 @sparkyvibes @helenciaaaa @menareaphase @glizzyme @undertheredh00d @imaniitheoneee

[scwibbs]

someone said to put jason todd in a thong and i gave him a tramp stamp while i was at it

[truestaim]

frat!dick sometimes gets so drunk that when he fucks you, he cums super quick. it should be humiliating for him that the so-called "frat king" is turning into a one-pump chump, and maybe it would be, if he didn't keep his hands on your waist, moving you up and down his dick like he would a fleshlight. all mocking falls short as he moves, his own moans matching yours "holy fuck baby... so fucking tight, just milking me."

[ceraphyte]

𝐖𝐢𝐥𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐁𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐥 𝐢𝐧 𝐔𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐝 𝐒𝟏𝐄𝟎𝟔 [𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓]

[punkdollrora]

[nightr0bin]

night patrol went fine.

also, zoom up to convo with tim.

[montagoves]

she’s meditating guys

jason: she’s died

[art-by-jas]

Summer in Bluebell Wade Kinsella x GN!Reader (AO3) Summary: A summer cookout at the river is supposed to be nothing more than good food, old friends, and a long day in the Alabama sun, but something about the way Wade is looking at you through out the day changes a few things.

Tags: Fluff, Kissing, First Kiss, Love Confessions, Feelings Realizations, Friends to Lovers, Pet Names (Darlin', Sugar other country nicknames...), Yearning a/n: I'm only on s1 so it might not be biblically accurate. Please enjoy, <333 If any pronouns are in here, I'm sorry and send me a dm to let me know. I'm trying to make my fics as GN as possible so all can enjoy.

dividers by uzmacchiato

The Alabama sun sits high and heavy over the river lot by the time you finish setting up the last folding table. Sweat beads at your temples, and you swipe at it with the back of your wrist, looking at the property with a bit of satisfaction. The old boathouse leans slightly to one side like it has for the past thirty years, the dock stretches out over water.

This place has been in your family longer than you've been alive. Every summer of your childhood happened here: scraped knees on the dock, the taste of river water, your mother's laughter carrying across the lawn. Now it's yours to maintain, yours to share, and on a Saturday in the thick of summer, that means opening it up to everyone you know and love.

Your phone buzzes. Lavon's texted that he's five minutes out. You're pulling sweet tea from the cooler when you hear tires on gravel.

The first vehicle that rolls up isn't Lavon's. It's a classic Chevelle-beat-up enough to be charming, polished enough to show he cares about it, and your stomach does something stupid and fluttery that you absolutely refuse to examine. Wade gets out from the driver's seat, all lazy confidence and sun-bronzed skin, wearing a faded t-shirt that's seen better days and a smile that hasn't.

"Well, hey there," he calls out, grabbing a case of beer from his Chevelle's trunk. "Figured I'd get here early, make myself useful for once."

"Wade Kinsella, useful?" You raise an eyebrow. "Should I be worried? Is this a sign of the apocalypse?"

"Darlin', I'm plenty useful." He sets the beer down near your cooler, and something about the way he says darlin' in such a casual way, like he's said it a thousand times, but it still makes your heart skip. "You just never ask for the right kind of help. You and Wade always seemed to have such a flirty friendship.

You're saved from having to figure out what Wade means by the arrival of Lavon's Lincoln followed immediately by George's vehicle. Within twenty minutes, the property transforms.

Annabeth arrives with homemade potato salad. Lemon steps carefully across the grass, in shoes entirely too nice for a river lot, with George trailing behind carrying enough supplies for a week-long camping trip.

"Lemon, you know we have plates here, right?" you ask, watching George unload what appears to be a complete dining set.

"I've seen your paper plates," Lemon says with a sniff. "They're flimsy. What if someone wants seconds of potato salad? The structural integrity would be completely compromised."

"God forbid," Wade mutters next to you, and you have to bite your lip to keep from laughing.

Brick and Tom show up next, both of them immediately gravitating toward the horseshoe pit.

Someone starts the grill, and soon the smell of charcoal and lighter fluid mingles with sunscreen and cut grass. Kids from down the river show up, like they always do when they see trucks at your lot, and within an hour there are bodies launching themselves off the dock, their shrieks of laughter bouncing across the water.

You're barefoot in the grass, having kicked off your sandals sometime around noon, and the grass is warm and slightly damp beneath your feet. An old country station plays from someone's truck radio.

"You want a drink?"

You turn to find Wade standing there, holding out a bottle of beer. You hadn't asked for one. Hadn't even thought about it yet.

"How'd you know I wanted one?" you ask, taking it from him.

Wade shrugs, that easy smile playing at his lips. "Just seemed like the right time." You twist off the cap and take a long drink, the cold cutting through the heat in your throat. Wade watches you for a moment, just a moment before Brick calls him over to help with the grill, and he ambles away.

You tell yourself the flutter in your chest is just the cold beer hitting your system.

The afternoon drifts. You find yourself at the picnic table where Annabeth and Wanda are setting out food, and you're reaching for a chip when you realize you're not grabbing from the communal bowl. You're stealing a handful from the plate Wade left sitting there, the one he'd piled high with his particular combination of chips, pickles, and what looks like half a burger.

"That's Wade's plate," Annabeth points out, amused.

You freeze with a chip halfway to your mouth. "He won't miss a few."

"Uh-huh." Annabeth's smile is knowing in a way that makes you want to throw a pickle at her. But you eat the chips anyway. And when Wade comes back and sees his half empty plate, he just laughs, low and warm and says, "Help yourself, sugar," before sliding the whole plate toward you.

Sugar.

You clear your throat. "I was just-"

"I know what you were doing." Wade's eyes crinkle at the corners. "You've been stealing food off my plate since we were in high school."

Have you? You try to remember, but the memories blur together bonfires and football games and late nights at the Rammer Jammer. Maybe you have, this is just what you do with Wade, this casual intimacy that you've never bothered to name.

"Horseshoes!" Brick calls out. "We need teams!"

Wade looks at you, "partners?" he asks.

"Only if you promise not to throw like you did last Fourth of July," you say. "I'm still traumatized."

"That was one bad throw, okay, I think I can handle it."

"It ended up in the river, Wade."

You're laughing as you follow him to the horseshoe pit, and somehow your shoulder bumps against his arm, and neither of you moves away. The game is less about horseshoes and more about the four of you talking trash and laughing so hard you can barely throw straight. Wade stands behind you at one point to 'show you the proper form,' his hand warm on your elbow, his voice low near your ear.

"You gotta follow through, darlin'. Like this."

He guides your arm through the motion, and you're aware of every point of contact: his chest near your back and his breath on your neck. You manage to throw the horseshoe, and it actually rings the stake.

"See?" Wade's voice is full of pride, like he's personally responsible for your win. "Natural."

You turn your head to respond and find his face closer than you expected. Close enough to see the flecks of gold in his eyes, close enough to count the freckles the sun's brought out across his nose.

"Lucky shot," you manage.

"Luck's got nothing to do with it." He steps back, grinning. "That's all skill, baby."

Baby. Oh, hell. You win the game barely and Wade celebrates by lifting you clean off your feet in a hug that lasts two seconds too long to be purely friendly. When he sets you down, his hands linger on your waist, and you're suddenly aware of how much you don't want him to let go.

"Boat ride!" Lavon announces. "Who's coming?"

A group forms quickly: Lavon, George, Annabeth, you, and Wade. The boat has been in your family almost as long as the lot itself, and it putters out onto the river. The sun is starting its descent, turning the sky shades of orange and pink. You end up sitting next to Wade on the back bench, thighs pressed together. The boat rocks gently, and every small movement pushes you closer to Wade's side.

His arm stretches out along the back of the bench. Not around you, exactly, but close enough that you can feel the warmth of it behind your shoulders.

"Pretty, isn't it?" Wade says quietly, and you realize he's not looking at the sunset. He's looking at you looking at the sunset.

"Yeah," you say, not turning your head. "Really pretty."

His fingers brush your shoulder. Once, twice. Like he's testing something, or maybe like he can't help himself, but you don't move away. The boat ride last about another twenty minutes before Lavon is heading back to the dock.

Back on shore, the sun is properly setting now, and someone's started the fire. The group gravitates toward it naturally, pulling chairs and blankets into a loose circle around the ring.

You can't take your eyes off him.

The firelight catches in his hair, on his face, making shadows dance across his features. Every time Wade glances up and catches your eye across the fire. Every time he smiles at something someone says, that easy, genuine smile that makes your chest ache.

You realize, suddenly and completely, that you don't want this day to end. More specifically, you don't want this... whatever this is with Wade to end. The thought should scare you. Instead, it settles into your chest like it's been waiting there all along.

"I should head out," Lavon says eventually, checking his phone. "Got an early meeting with the county commissioner tomorrow."

Lemon stands a few mintues after Lavon, brushing invisible dirt from her dress. "Finally. The mosquitoes here are absolutely vicious."

"You've been sitting by the fire for two hours, Lemon," George points out. "The smoke keeps them away."

Lemon makes some kind of irritated noise before George gets the message and starts gathering their things. George gives you an apologetic look as Lemon pulls him toward their car. "Great party. Really. We'll have to do it again soon."

Eventually everyone packs up their stuff in their vehicles and heads off the bumpy road that leads to the main one. Before you know it, it's just you and Wade and the dying fire. The silence should be awkward, but it's not.

Wade pokes at the embers with a stick. "Hell of a day."

"Yeah," you agree. "It was."

You should probably start cleaning up. Should gather the plates and cups, should make sure the grill is properly off, should do all the responsible host things you're supposed to do.

Instead, you stand up and walk toward the dock. The wood is warm under your feet, still holding the heat. You walk to the very end and sit down, letting your legs dangle over the edge. The sky is deep purple now, scattered with stars.

You're thinking about Wade. About his hands on your waist after the horseshoe game. About the way he said darlin' and sugar like the words were made for you. About how many times today you found yourself next to him without planning it, without trying.

The dock creaks softly, and you don't have to turn around to know it's him. Wade settles beside you, close enough that your shoulders brush. He doesn't say anything at first, just sits there with his own feet dangling, looking out at the water.

"Pretty night," Wade says finally.

"Yeah."

"Pretty day, too."

Another silence. His shoulder presses more firmly against yours, and you realize he's shifted closer.

"Can I tell you something?" Wade's voice is quieter now, more serious than you're used to hearing it.

Your heart kicks up. "Okay."

"I didn't come early to be helpful." He's still looking at the water, not at you. "I came early because I wanted to see you. Before everyone else got here. Just... you."

Oh. Oh.

"Wade-"

"And all day," he continues, like now that he's started he can't stop, "all day I kept finding reasons to be near you. Kept looking for you in the crowd. Kept thinking about how your laugh sounds, and how you steal food off my plate, and how you fit perfectly under my arm during that hug, and..." He stops. Takes a breath. "And I think I've been doing this for a while. Longer than just today. I just didn't let myself see it."

You turn to look at him, and he finally turns to look at you.

"Darlin'," Wade says, and this time when he says it, you feel it everywhere—in your chest, in your stomach, in the tips of your fingers. "I really want to kiss you right now."

"Yeah," you breathe. "Yeah, okay."

He moves slowly, giving you time to change your mind, time to pull away, but you don't. His hand comes up to cup your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone, and the touch is so gentle it makes your throat tight.

When his lips meet yours, it's soft. You make a small sound, and Wade takes it as permission to deepen the kiss. His other hand finds your waist, steadying you, pulling you closer, and you reach up to fist your hand in his shirt. The kiss breaks for just a moment, both of you breathing hard, and Wade rests his forehead against yours.

"Jesus," he mutters.

"Yeah."

"Can I-"

"Yes."

You don't even know what he's asking, but the answer is yes. Yes to all of it. This time when he kisses you, it's deeper and hungrier. His tongue traces your bottom lip and you open for him, tasting beer and smoke and something that's just Wade. Your hands move from his shirt to his hair, fingers threading through it, and he groans low in his throat.

The sound does something to you. Unravels something. You shift closer, practically climbing into his lap there on the dock, and Wade's hands tighten on your waist, holding you steady, holding you close.

"Sugar," he murmurs against your mouth, and the word sends heat spiraling through you.

You've never been kissed like this. Like he's been waiting for this and now that he has it, he never wants to stop. You don't want to stop either. Wade's mouth moves from your lips to your jaw, trailing kisses down to the sensitive spot below your ear, and you gasp, tilting your head to give him better access. His teeth graze your skin and you actually whimper.

"You like that, darlin'?" His voice is rough, wrecked, and you've never heard anything sexier in your life.

"Yes," you breathe. "God, yes."

He comes back to your mouth, and this kiss is slower but no less intense. Deep and thorough, like he's trying to learn every inch of you. Your hands roam over his shoulders, his chest, feeling the muscle beneath his shirt, and you think distantly that you should probably slow down, should probably think about what this means.

You're not sure how long you stay like that minutes or hours, time has lost all meaning, but eventually you have to break apart to breathe. You're both panting, foreheads pressed together, hands still clutching at each other like you're afraid to let go.

"Holy hell," Wade says.

You laugh, breathless and giddy. "Yeah."

"I don't..." He stops, swallows hard. "I don't want this to end."

"Me neither."

"So let's not let it." He pulls back to look at you properly, and his expression is so open, so honest, it makes your chest ache. "Stay. Stay here with me. We can sit on this dock all night if you want. I don't care. I just, I don't want you to go."

"I'm not going anywhere," you promise, and you mean it. You mean it more than you've meant anything in a long time.

Wade's smile is so bright you can't help but mirror it. He shifts so you're tucked against his side, his arm around your shoulders, your head resting on his chest. You can hear his heartbeat, still racing, matching your own.

"This is crazy," you say quietly. "We've known each other for years."

"I know."

"Why now? Why today?"

Wade is quiet for a moment, his hand tracing absent patterns on your arm. "Maybe it's always been now. Maybe we just finally stopped pretending it wasn't."

You think about that. About all the times over the years when you found yourself looking for Wade in a crowd. About how his laugh always made you smile. About the way you felt comfortable with him in a way you weren't with anyone else.

Maybe he's right. "I'm glad we stopped pretending," you say.

"Me too, darlin'. Me too."

Main Masterlist

[bloomcissa]

he swears his life to you!

꒰ content ꒱ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ knight!bruce wayne x princess!reader

knight!bruce wayne collection

Bruce's muscles ache. The healers have been fussing over him, trying to get him to lie down. There's a dull throb in his arm where a dagger had gone too deep. 

None of that matters right now. Not when you'd almost died because he lost focus for a mere moment. The absence of your warmth haunts him more than any wound he's ever had. So you're all he needs as he stumbles to your chambers—a risky move he hopes doesn't make its way to the gossip mills.

When you open the door, a gasp escapes you. "Bruce—

"No." His jaw clenches. "I failed you."

You—not the kingdom, not your father. He failed you.

He's covered in blood. It's drying on his armor and staining his skin. He moves into the room, making sure not to get blood anywhere as he kneels in front of you, head down as if he's somehow guilty of treason. The sound of metal against the floor is jarring.

"Stop it," your voice wobbles. He couldn't possibly think that when he's the one who found you and brought you back. He's the one with bruises littering his beautiful face, the one you'd memorized in your dreams as if knowing the shape of him was enough to keep him. 

He looks up then with a ferocity that makes you simultaneously want to step back and throw yourself at him. Torchlight glints off the sword at his side, its edge as sharp as his jaw and the determination in his eyes. 

But when he opens his mouth, your name is mumbled so softly you could barely hear him.

And following that is a declaration that would stay with you for the rest of your life.

"I swear my life to you."

masterlist

made myself write something serious for once but there’s a crack fic in my imagination that’s calling my name