#bullet fic

[w0rms-w0rms-w0rms]

I know all of the scenes that need to be in this chapter but I don't know the order, why must I exist only for the sake of suffering

[dilf-docs]

only ex-boyfriend!pedro can please you (+18) ╱ want to read more? click here

his hand lowers to the hem of your shirt, slipping his thumbs underneath.

"did he give you this?"

you nod, raising your arms for him to slip it off. his fingers then trail down your back, leaving a wave of goosebumps behind. he stops on your bra, undoing the hooks to remove it.

"and this?"

"no" you bite your lip, "i wore it for you"

pedro eyes your body, removing his glasses from his face and placing themon the bedside table.

"does he know?"

you catch the double meaning on the air; five years is enough to know a person.

"i don't see him around" is your defiant response. "do you want him to?"

he kneels down in front of your dangling legs, parting them to fit in between.

"no. it's better if it's a secret" he works his hands around the waistband of your jeans, pulling them completely off along with your laced panties, although his fingers linger a bit on those, thumb running along the fabric, probably remembering the old days. "if you keep it like this, though, texting me everytime this pretty pussy hurts, it won't be long 'till he finds out what his sweet girlfriend does when she calls in sick"

stomach aches. an easy lie. he didn't question it, such a gentleman. little did he know you were getting fucked out and pumped full of cum right over its skin.

"she's getting fucked by you"

you're so wet it's embarrasing. you should feel guilty. the worst part is you don't: not when pedro is the only one who can soothe this ache.

pedro presses a finger against your clit, dragging it down until he reaches your hole. slowly, he pushes it in until its half is inside. he feels you clench around his finger, and the smirk on his face is imposible to hide.

"good girl" he praises as he takes it out. you whimper, but he's too busy watching it glisten under the light, bringing it into his mouth shamelessly. "i take she missed me"

without waiting for more words or regret to settle in, he lifts your thigh onto his shoulder before entering two digits.

"couldn't he please her?" he taunts, "that you need your ex-boyfriend to come and fuck you right?"

the shameful truth, because one thing about pedro, is he knows how to finger-fuck: brown honey dark eyes over your core, watching in trance how his digits go in and out of your slick walls, coating themselves with each pump. mind fuzzy with how, despite time and the hurt behind, your body clings to him like a vice, responding to each command like it's made for him only, your sweet little sounds bringing him closer to heaven with the knowledge he still can make you feel good.

your nails dig into the exposed skin of his bicep to ground yourself. "don't stop"

"stop?" he chuckles, but it's devoid of amusement. "we should've by now, but we can't sweetheart, can we?"

his free hand moves from your thigh to your clit, rubbing gentle circles.

"because you love how i do it, how nobody else can" you're close and he knows it; knows your body like it’s his own. "so you keep coming for more, even if it's bad"

your thighs squeeze against his body, nails digging into pedro's arm as you whimper. your orgasm is close: he knows. it's the way your eyes scrunch, the same he used to watch first thing in the morning and last before closing his own; your lip, bitten, the one he used to kiss until some drool pooled out of the swollen pink and you tasted like him; and your cunt, the one he fucked over and over again, learning each corner of your body with devotion, its sacred temple profaned with the dirty of heartbreak, but the one he gets on his knees for, waiting for it to clench and your call of his name like a prayer, the best sin he's ever known.

"give it to me, baby. i know you can"

your juices coat his hand, damping the bed sheets you'll have to change to hide your dirty little secret. pedro smiles, satisfied. if his heart jumps when you look down, a mess because of him, he makes sure to forget it.

"that's it, mami" as he keeps thrusting his fingers in you slowly to help you ride out your orgasm, "so good for me"

he watches your chest rise and fall, guessing the pattern of your heart.

"don't you need this relief so badly" he slides his fingers out, cocky grin on full display, "or maybe you just need me"

"pedro" you warn, still navigating the after effects of your high.

"because nobody knows you like i do. nobody fucks you like i do" this time he places both your thighs on his shoulders, wrapping his arms around to drag you closer. his hot breath ghosts over you, so his last words: "that's why you keep calling, even if it's bad"

a breath catches in your throat as pedro's tongue licks a long strip against your heat. your hands ball into fists at your sides as your ex sucks your cunt like he's starving. of you. stop. think.

but you can't, not when his tongue slides into your hole and his lips suck on your clit, like he's making out with it.

you moan his name, one, two, three times as your hips thrust into his mouth, chasing the feeling as it builds up.

there's no space to think how this is wrong, not when you sent the text, or when you opened the door and he was there, because he can't deny you anything. certainly not as your second orgasm washes over you, body twitching as your hands grab his damp curls. they're longer now.

"be honest, why did you text me?"

your hands fall limp to your sides. "i was drunk"

he clicks his tongue, half-chuckling.

"were you too last time?"

you try to catch your breath as pedro removes your thighs from his shoulders, placing them down on the bed gently, as if a day hasn't passed.

"don't force it"

"we'll have to talk about it"

a heavy weight lands over your chest, the same when you look at your boyfriend and wish it was him.

"not today" you kiss his nose softly. he sighs. you then kiss his lips, tasting your self in them, "there's always tomorrow"

a/n: tried some angst. did it work? idk. it's ooc? well, yes! idgaf. hbd pedro pookie, i'm still quite fond of you *ੈ✩‧₊˚ taglist: @klmr0 @zmbi3gr1 ╱ join here

[002yb]

Everyone knows something is wrong because Dick is decidedly pissy. It takes a lot to make him angry, to test his patience or cause him to brood.

Whatever happened must be severe though because the atmosphere around Dick is suffocating. Just looking at him feels dangerous, but up close there's a heavy, crushing weight to the very air around him.

More unnerving still is how Jason is glowing, almost manic in his giddiness. Uncharacteristically smiley and cackling to himself every so often.

It seems obvious that Jason must've done something to piss Dick off. When Tim asks about it though, Jason snickers and assures him that Jason is innocent this time; this is all Dick.

Which makes Tim worry more somehow because it's got to be bad if Dick is so bothered by it. Only it can't be serious since Jason is clearly taking such joy in it.

Rather than go to Dick, Tim sticks with Jason and asks what happened. Only when Jason goes to share, they're both stopped short by the coldest glare either of them have ever experienced in their lives. It draws a shudder down Tim's spine, but a sputtered giggle from Jason.

'Come on, stop sulking.' Jason would tell Dick, meandering over and braving the crackling atmosphere around Dick to plop into his lap.

And usually Dick is all about the pda when Jason offers it, but today he keeps his hands to himself, leaning away from Jason with his arms crossed.

'You're proof that it's not a big deal. Tim'll get over it too if he hasn't already; just apologize if you feel so bad.'

That this is somehow about Tim surprises him. He can't remember Dick doing anything that'd upset him.

Rather than be worried over how Tim is affected, Tim frowns and frets over Dick because, 'What's going on, D?'

But Dick remains stubbornly tight lipped and avoiding his gaze.

So Jason chimes in with a cheeky, 'He's just sore because he realized he pulled the same shit on you that B did to him.'

It takes Tim only a second to put the pieces together and once he does, he can't help but laugh. He hadn’t thought about it like that. Karmic retribution is sweet.

'I did it because Tim's his own hero - he's bigger than Robin--'

'Huh.' Bruce chimes in, stoic yet still smug from his place at the batcomputer.

Just lots of jokes and teasing that makes losing Robin sting a lot less because Dick really went full circle with firing ('I didn't fire you') him and replacing him for a younger brat. All out of some sense of confidence and pride and belief Tim could be more ('look at you now though--') that boils down to 'Dick knows best'.

All Dick can do is hide behind his hands as he's laughed at.

He'll recover in time, same as he did when he lost Robin - same as Tim did when he lost the mantle, too.

Petty as it is, it feels vindicating though.

So to make right another wrong (the tower incident), Tim turns on Jason with a bright smile and snickers, 'Guess it's true what they say about finding a partner like your dad, huh?'

Both Dick and Jason look at him for a moment, processing. And while Dick starts laughing, Jason blushes to the tips of his ears, trying to clamber off of Dick to throw hands with Tim only to be held in place on Dick's lap by Dick's arms coming to wrap around him, face buried in Jason’s chest to muffle his snickers and press an adoring kiss to his sternum.

[dilf-docs]

⣴♬ you taste like the fourth of july

summary: ted garcia fucks the political ideologies out of you. warnings: +18 (mdni), smut, p. in v., creampie, dirty talking, humiliation kink, praise kink, exhibitionism kink, public sex, brat taming in a way, i love the world atta girl more than my life wc: 1,8k

the problem with running for mayor in eddington is that, if you're from the other team, it's already a lost battle: unless you're ted garcia, town will never take your side.

(you tried to tell your boss, but he's a stubborn old coot)

he, the one who keeps them under his spell: with his theatricals, face on every corner, poster smile and perfect southern image, all leather and hair. with his honey-ed grave voice and speeches, the ones that come out of the same mouth whispering filth in your ear.

"what would good 'ol joe think about this, hmm?" he taunts, slowly, every word thick and intended. "tell me, baby, what face would he make if he found out his sweet trusted assistant sprawled out like a slut on ted garcia's desk?"

you whimper, half humiliation, half arousal.

"joe would kick you out. he's inflexible like that" he mocks, wicked smile across his handsome face. with a free finger, he caresses your trembling parted lips, a shaky exhale drawn from his touch. you feel the shape of his aching cock brush your inner thigh, "but don't worry, my office is always open for you, sweetheart"

a sound that barely counts as a squeak falls past your lips. it's hard to find your voice if his thick calloused fingers from age and not hard work are deep inside you, pumping in and out; circling in a slow tortuous pace that feels deliberate.

"you're an egocentrical maniac if you think this is all about you" you pant, teeth gritted. "this is about me"

right. it's better lying; you're used to it: anything better than admiting you've stared before, on campaigns and walks on town, when just a glimpse meters away from his bar, the shape of his back hidden behind the glass, brown hair curled at the ends, was enough to make your hands violently twitch with repressed desires of touching him, of pulling it and hearing that voice that enchanted crowds whisper to you only things that you'd never wish for outloud.

why give him a free ego boost? like your moans weren't enough, like having the whole town dickriding him still leaves him wanting more. ted's greed sickens you: winning the election doesn't suffice, he too wants to win whatever this is.

it's a war and you started it, the very first moment you walked into his office determined to make joe win, only to fall into the very thing you said you'd never.

(because one thing was touching yourself to your rival, and another thing is lying to your boss about your whereabouts, saying you're doing this for him when it's about you)

(it's always been about you)

so, technically, it's half a lie: you're the impulse and he's the catalyst for your downfall.

"oh sweetheart" he tuts, fingers curling, dripping in your slick, "tell me why are you in my office, then. for secrets? we both know that's not the truth. but if it's so, you must know it all has a price" you whimper, "are you willing to pay?"

your mother who raised you strong, that diploma hanging above your bed and office even though it's more of a humilliation given your degree and your current job, are dissapointed in you.

may God forgive you: you're so ready to pay the price.

you nod, once.

"no, baby. give me more" he curls his fingers again, inside you, hitting that spot that has you seeing stars. "i know you can"

you nod, twice. vigorously.

"you're smart, baby. degree an' all" his voice turns rougher; raspier. there's some pride there if you're delusional enough. "speak, doll. words, i need words"

your throat feels dry. your pussy clenches around his fingers. a groan falls past his lips.

you choke on your own spit, "p-please, ted. fuck me"

it's like receiving the goddamn keys to the city. his fingers leave your milking pussy, a smirk across his face. "there she is: smart girl"

the sound of the metal of his belt is akin to bells on the collar of a dog. his cock twitches painfully under those pristine pants he's quick to drop to his knees, as if he's done it many times. you don't want to think about it: you'd rather think about how your slick is still on his fingers.

"lick" he orders, voice impossibly low. his fingers extend your way, and you have to prop up in your elbows to reach them. once your mouth is close, lips on his nails, he pushes them forward, making you gag. "show me you're grateful, little slut, 'cuz i made you cum. if you want me to do it again, clean it off. i better not see you waste a drop"

your tongue moves, expert, cheeks hollowing as you suck. you feel the salt of his sweat and the taste of you mixed up in your tongue. you're done, leaving his fingers with a 'pop!' sound. his eyes are dark like burnt caramel as he looks down on you.

"atta girl" he smirks. "can see why joe likes to keep you 'round his office"

you feel his cock tease your entrance, and then, without missing a beat, slam all the way in.

"but how about an offer in mine?"

you gasp, the sound broken, yet ted's quick to swallow it inside his mouth, kissing you. it feels so foreign, so inviting: how he's deep inside, still and heavy, warm as his lips that remain where they shouldn't or as the hands that search yours, intertwined to keep him steady; like every part of him wants to touch every part of you.

"you're so tight" he grumbles more to himself as you let your pussy accomodate him. he might not be lengthy but God, he's thick. it burns, deliciously so.

he breaks the kiss and you hate how you miss it. there's no time to dwell on the implications of that small sting on your chest because he slowly pulls out before pushing all the way in. how could his wife leave a man that could fuck like this?

"look at you, all quiet now. cat got your tongue?" he taunts as your walls suck him, making him grunt.

you gasp again, but this time, it's because his forehead leans against your warm flushed skin, sweat mixing with yours. the closeness has confussing feelings all over you.

"fuck" ted speaks over the silence, "you feel so good, made for me" a beat passes by before his big lousy political-empty-promises foul mouth speaks again, "i'm serious about the position. i'll hire you"

you find your voice again: "to piss joe off or to fuck me whenever you want?"

he laughs, but it's not mocking anymore.

"baby, can't it be both?"

ted picks up his pace, the rhythm steady unlike your heart. you can feel it like his dick: dragging along your wet folds, making them clench as he keeps moving, your soft moans the only sound filling the room.

"not much of a talker, huh?" he speaks. his hand, that hand too big and warm, slaps your pussy. you mewl, tears prickling partly from the sting and partly from embarrasment. "and here i thought you'd try to convince me why poor ol' joe should win instead of me"

"or maybe, you knew he'd already lost" he continues as so his moves, never once faltering, "knew this town's fuckin' obssesed with me" he pants, "ain't you?"

"what? obssesed with you?" you laugh, dry.

he smirks, "i was gonna say right about this whole stupid race, but thank you"

"for what?"

"for letting me fuck you"

your skirt rides up even more than it had by now as ted pounds into you, deep enough to hit the sweetest spot inside of you.

"i still work for joe" you bite back a moan coming from the rawest part of your throat. you pull him even closer by his tie, daringly so. he groans at the sudden tightness on his neck. "i still think he's gonna win"

that's a lie: a clean, political lie. but with ted, especially after this, you're not going down without a fight.

"look at you, little brat, arguin' with me like you aren't a thrust away from cryin' on my cock, you ungrateful slut" he clicks his tongue, sounding rather dissapointed. "well, i might need to change your mind" his teeth dig in his lower plush lip as he fucks you, wet curls falling over the beads of sweat on his temple. that and the white rolled up button skirt, sweat patches all over the fabric, especially on his armpits. "you're in denial, baby. joe's got you brainwashed"

"you'll lose"

the familiar knot ties in your stomach. you wrap your legs tight around him, keeping him close. a hand grabs his hair while the other doesn't let go of the tie.

"i think that's you" he sneers. "don't worry, there's always a first"

the wood of his desk creaks under your combined weight.

"i might have to change your mind" ted switches the rhythm, aiming for harder yet slower, "and if you still refuse, well, i'll have to fuck it out of you"

he keeps slamming into you, determined, and it sort of makes your chest tight at the thought the mayor's fucking you on his office intent on making you change sides. what started as a supposed power move on your side has you now pinned under his weight, the curve of his belly pressing into your stomach as his dick rams into you.

"let go, baby. be a good girl and let go"

ted could probably mean the tie, but it's the command, rough and low, sinfuly spoken, and maybe your moans, or the each time more gentler push of his juice-coated length between your creamy folds, what makes you come. or maybe it's when you look up and meet his gaze.

it's probably the sight of him, lips parted under that neatly trimmed mustache, sweat-dripping face and hair, wicked smirk and dark honey eyes.

you wish you could tell what he's thinking. you wish you didn't cry his name out like a prayer, holding onto a misguided faith, as your eyes roll back, orgasm hitting hard.

you also wish he didn't speak before reaching his own: "i might get addicted to you"

in the landscape of politics, it could mean anything. it could mean nothing at all.

his dick twitches inside of you as you ride your orgams out, walls spasming around his cock.

"atta girl"

it takes you so long to come down from your high that you believe you never will.

you might never get over this.

over his hot breath panting over you. of the closeness and warmth of his body keeping you in place. of how his heartbeat falls behind yours, sound louder than it should as it echoes in the four walls of the office he's just fucked you in.

"and when joe smells me all over you, i hope you come back crawlin' here like the good girl you are" he smirks darkly, ragged breaths caressing your cheek as a kiss. you shiver as he delivers the final blow. "you should start gettin' used to calling me boss"

a.n: shot out to oomf who gave me the idea i never wrote until now taglist: @klmr0 @zmbi3gr1 ╱ join dilftown residency here !

[002yb]

Most of the furniture in their apartment is secondhand - gifted, thrifted, or found discarded and repurposed. None of it matches, but it's theirs. It shapes their home into something warm, comfortable and lived in.

To see the life he builds with Dick come together is heartening in a way that makes Jason feel warm and giddy. It's silly since it's just somewhere to coexist at the end of the day, but it's home.

And Jason's never really had one of those before.

So he's taken by every little thing that becomes part of their space.

At first Jason was tentative about bringing Dick something used. Because they haven't talked about how Jason is just as used as all these trashed things they find. And Jason doesn't want to tell him although he should; he can't--

'Sorry,' It tears from Jason's throat faster than he can smother it down, trying to dismiss it to spare himself the embarrassment. 'It's used.'

But Dick just smiles, bright with genuine delight because it's the first thing they're bringing home together and it honestly reminds Dick of his home, back when.

'Pre-loved,' Dick says, rephrasing because that's genuinely how he sees it. It's so tender-compassionate-hopeful. It makes Jason's heart ache to hear it. Because being used hasn't taken away any of its value; because Dick will love it going forward.

And it's not comparable to anything that Jason's gone through (because there was never any love in the ways he was used and hurt and betrayed and-); he's not a thing (even if it felt like it, feels like it) but he finds comfort in the gentleness of the sentiment regardless.

It's the most poignant reminder that home is less a place than it is a person, that they could have nothing and Jason would still feel just as happy, just as safe.

But he's glad to have this home they build for themselves, too. He takes pride in it.

Which might be unfortunate for Dick because Jason is fussy about keeping things clean (because Jason wants what's theirs to be cared for; he doesn't want to go back to living in an apartment littered with trash and empty bottles, cigarette butts that match the burns just behind his ear, on the soles of his feet--)

Jason won't live like this parents.

Dick won't make him; won't allow it.

Because he takes pride in their home, too. He won't let it be anything but a safe haven; theirs.

======

Somehow this digressed and I can't get it back on track lol. But basically all that furniture talk for the sole purpose of this:

Dick and Jason hauling a couch up the stairs of their apartment complex, arguing about the best way to make this oversized thing fit.

And Jason makes a dirty joke about how Dick ought to trust him to know how to make big things fit; Jason does it regularly. ;)

And it makes Dick laugh because guess what, Jay? That's Dick making sure nothing gets damaged. ;)

At which point Dick curses under his breath because all at once he's supporting the full weight of this sofa and it's heavy.

But Jason is honestly so overwhelmed by that dirty one-liner turned against him that he has to put the furniture down and crouch behind it to hide because ffs Dick omg. (๑/////๑ " )

And idk maybe later Dick has Jason show him just how good Jason is at making Dick big things fit in tight places.

Only Jason is too maiden so fucking himself on his fingers for Dick's viewing pleasure is embarrassing even if Dick looks like he's having a great time.

But also? Jason being impatient and swearing he's prepped when he's not, thus proving Dick's point in their earlier argument.

Which he's sure to point out and Jason just ⁽⁽(੭ꐦ •̀Д•́ )੭*⁾⁾ because Dick really wants to bring that up right now??

They still fuck, but Dick is sequestered to sleep on their new couch after.

Only Jason ends pressed up against him in that narrow space after a few hours.

And pfffft maybe Dick doesn't wake up, just shuffles over and holds Jason close out of habit and instinct. But then Jason's murmuring in this low voice how he stretched himself properly this time and Dick immediately ( ˶°ㅁ°) !!

Then they roll off the couch to fuck on the floor.

[dilf-docs]

⣴♬ how was salt lake city, dear?

summary: sometimes, in an apocalypse, blood isn't the worst pain. it can still be a broken heart ; loosely based on this song. warnings: angst, age gap (30s/60s) wc: 1,4k side note: this is a request i got a long time ago and could never work out. i'm actually depressed and hating my works so have some angst because if i'm not happy neither are my characters !!! 🫵🏼

pairing: joel miller x younger!fem reader

blood stained your shoes, and not once, did he look back. tears in your face, and he didn't wipe them either.

never back, never to where you lingered: because you were past. not the one that wrapped him up in guilt and curled on the air he breathed, pressing on his haunted lungs―on the ghosts swimming in his brown-eyed stare.

that was reserved for others.

because there was once this woman who shared a bed and things of his past life, bonded by loss and strength, and even if he never smiled at her, you felt the warmth by the way he silently followed her orders and how her sacrifice made him hesitate again ever since a long time.

instead, joel looked forward. to future days.

on the girl who used to be cargo, but after that small town where the meat smelled with the blood of the loved ones that died, he had held her like a child of his own, promising things he'd gone long without saying out loud, kept locked inside with a grief that soured with regret and age, with just one single sentence.

i got you, babygirl.

you didn't have tess' trust or ellie's love.

the truth is, you had nothing.

except the solace of his body next to yours and how he'd let you hold him in the dark, not afraid of your hand dropping over scars and the hollow space of his heart.

joel was your compass: anywhere he'd go, you'd too. he could wreck your plans; life, all over again, and you would let him―every time. let the words dying to be screamed drown in the poison of the bitterness inside you, hoping he'd hear the bellow of loyalty begged to be seen; rewarded. for staying; straying. like a worn boot or a scar: not wanted but needed, kept around for use. not wanted, but present, as the seasons changing and the cruel time that never stopped.

you'd hope for anything: for him to feel you. to love you.

the truth is, joel didn't see over his shoulder to see if you were behind: because he knew you'd always follow.

when you left the QZ for tommy, then for ellie. keeping tess' promise even if it was only sworn to him. letting the blood of the hospital stain your clothes. marlene's blood.

not even with the crimson on your hands could he look your way with the love you craved.

so you learned to hate him. resent him.

him and his hardened stare, bitter as the coffee he took back when the world was normal.

for the ache he put in you. for knowing this was never going to change, surrendering when tess died because ellie took her spot.

it would always be another one. because joel could love, just never you.

he knew it: when he let you have him but not his heart. when danger lurked in and he ran to ellie without a doubt. when the warmth of those nights didn't reach his eyes but the comfort of your body, steady rough hands seeking for relief and not a refuge.

and you still dared to hound, with your old loyal dog lingering, licking his soles for a single touch.

for a silent look that promised what you craved and gave without questioning away:

i'm here.

always.

with you.

that seed of hoping he planted in you, grew, sharpness of thorns up your throat, choking up in the silence of the unsaid. the sorrow that echoed in enclosed spaces, where having his body close burned.

burned with the flame that maimed you slowly when you woke up to the smell of your favorite flowers, freshly cut, next to your bed. or when he taught you how to fire a gun because you didn't know how to defend yourself. put himself between you and those raiders that almost touched you how only he had: killed them slowly, almost enjoyed it. in the way his fingers brushed the blue hues on your skin when you were hurt; they digged softly into the ones of your wounded heart.

you learned to see those quiet moments for nothing but circumstance, the one that bounded broken souls in this apocalypse, wrapping them up in barb wire and letting their shattered sharp glass edges tear into one another.

you let your burning love reduce to ashes and a sadness that couldn't be removed like a stain. instead, it splattered like the blood you couldn't wash off.

some days, when the loneliness got harder, you'd go to empty placess like you: decayed by memories. most of the times, the theater, and pretended the music was there. and in the midst of your bittersweet symphony, you couldn't help but wonder if there was someone new. if he was full where you felt hollow.

if he held someone close like he used to hold you, times were he felt stronger and you felt protected. if they knew his favorite color and other silly things he didn't talk about. if the nightmares he used to have, dwindled.

if somebody else could finally give joel peace.

those were the days, you missed him.

missed mostly the way he made you feel: because in a rugged, quiet, aching and empty way, just maybe, joel loved you.

loved too the way you made him feel: safe, keeping the rotten inside the cage you'd locked both of you inside―the one that once felt like a refuge and not a prison.

because these people hadn't cracked the locks you craved freeing yourself from.

they were colder.

some had smiles like those joel could never give you except for when he let time still and loosened up with that rare soft smirk that made butterflies ache in your chest.

those, you killed with a rage that felt almost animalistic. a feeling that was better than being empty at all.

because the wolves you dreamed of throwing your life away to, had found you before: carrying nothing but rocks in your pockets, weighting you down with joel's burden.

the burden of a love that emptied you with foolishness and a tomorrow that never came. one you believed in as a prayer, holding onto a rare faith found in the middle of hell.

why did you allow yourself to feel anything in a world like this?

now, you were a wolf: biting before being bitten. sinking teeth on tender meat like your own had been, the one that still beat. to taste blood, because existing costed blood, and you still had sins to pay.

"thought i may find you here"

that sadistic gleam in her eyes you'd gotten used to stares back at you.

"i'm predictable"

"it's because i know you"

it sends chills down your spine: the words not of a friend but rather an enemy you should keep close.

"you should tell me the story"

"one day" you agree with crossed fingers, thinking of his own and the soft accords of a forgotten guitar.

then, she tells what she'd been dying to say:

"we found him" her lips utters between a shaky disbelief and quiet simmering relief. the promise of finishing long due killings. "are you coming?"

you don't know the story, don't care: a lost father, one you had learned to lose before it all turned upside down. abby anderson is a person you've come to known―the curse of coexisting in shared spaces. she's probably a sister you could've loved before, back when softness came to you like a crux; not disease or weakness. or perhaps the daughter this world never allowed you to have.

you never asked for details or explanations: not when they found you, trembling, and her eyes stare was too haunted for a girl her age. not after, as she broke little by little, sharpening the edges her ill-fitting pieces had left.

"yeah" you stand up. "i'm coming"

always a follower, never a leader. straying behind, falling into footprints left to rot in the dirt, erased by the wind: as if you had never been there.

never had been loyal. never had chosen to stay.

just remained, because you had no place to go.

no home.

only you had been foolish enough to believe joel miller could've been.

so, when roads lead, you don't expect them to end in that old house: but all wandering lost stars are bound to find themselves back to the sky that lit them up.

there he is, hands raised up as bile does in your throat, tasting like the thick air of that hospital many years ago.

a name you haven't said in years, afraid of the smokey memories it might billow, with the ghosts that haunt your nightmares and empty bed. of that love you had sworn off but never left.

"joel"

taglist: @klmr0 @zmbi3gr1 (love u, dear citizens!)

[002yb]

It's not the first time that Jason's been held at gunpoint, but it's the first time it's the barrel of his own gun he looks down.

For someone to disarm him and leave him defenseless, overpowered and at their mercy—it's not unfamiliar even if it's been a long, long time since anyone tried, since anyone dared.

Damned circumstances or not, Jason's heart skips a beat.

It happens in an instant, between one breath and the next, but Jason could swear that time slows down as he looks past certain death to the man behind the trigger.

Their eyes only catch for a moment and it stretches for an eternity. Blue is all Jason can see and think and feel; dark, deep, and dangerous.

When time speeds up, it's with a bang—with a bullet that shoots just past Jason's ear and lodges itself in the sorry bastard trying to run away from them.

From the way the bastard cries out and continues to bitch, Jason knows it's a nonlethal shot. And Jason would be impressed at the foresight to incapacitate rather than aiming to kill if only it made sense.

Because this guy should be one of the bastard's grunts. He certainly isn't one of Jason's men—he'd know. There's no way Jason would miss a presence like this, the conviction.

They should be shooting Jason.

The gun that pointed just slightly away from him returns and with it, an order: 'On your knees.'

Jason grimaces. A cop?

He comes around to the idea quicker than he'd like to admit; given his prejudice against pigs, Jason's never entertained the idea of having a man on the inside, but fuck him if he doesn't want this man inside—

Jason raises his hands to show some form of compliance and that he's not an active threat. Though there's no seeing it behind his muzzle, he drawls, 'Yes, sir.'

Truth be told, Jason's not sure he's ever gone to his knees so easily before. He's not much of a submissive sort—never met anyone that he felt like kneeling down for.

They look good holding Jason's piece. Jason almost wants to ask if he can hold theirs—

But Jason goes down, slow. Sits back on his heels and waits, eyes trained on the officer the entire time. Bright, eager. Curious.

With the upbringing Jason had, he's good at reading people. He has enough faith in himself to know he's not in any real danger despite the persistent bitching coming down the alley from the bastard this man gunned down.

This cop is too good a man; Jason's too competent a criminal.

'Wanna cuff me, too?'

They know who he is. Jason wonders if his arrest somehow takes higher priority than this case he was assigned—a matter Jason was dealing with personally, given the circumstances.

It's not like the operation was a bust just because Jason turned up. Given, there wasn't going to be anything left to investigate after tonight. Jason doesn't take kindly to traffickers in his territory, after all.

The only conclusion that Jason can come to makes butterflies tickle his stomach.

'Wouldn't want to reward you.'

Too late.

'I'm fine with a little punishment.'

'Only a little?'

The banter is refreshing; not many people talk to Jason like this anymore. There's no hiding the small smile in his voice, 'Maybe more than a little.'

The man drops Jason's gun, kicking it back to him. Giving back Jason's safety, his control. Holding Jason's gaze with steadfast resolve. There's a threat unspoken—that if Jason tries to turn on him here, they'll do more than disarm him. Jason can see it in the man's eyes, bright and wild.

'How about a life sentence?'

And oh, Jason beams, 'Wouldn't want it any other way, officer.'

It's at this moment that Dick recognizes that he's done fucked up because notorious crime lord simply known by his alias, Red Hood, devotes himself to Dick right then and there. Officer Grayson proposed, after all. Jason's more than happy to be wifey.

Monstrous/mob-wifey meet-cute; a messy idea on a first meeting for them. ( ⸝⸝´꒳`⸝⸝)

So it's only after writing that I remembered I planned on having this AU's Dick be a by-the-books 'good guy,' whoops. Also I don't explain it anywhere but the thought was that Dick was undercover and got sick of all the red tape holding up the arrest and subsequent saving of trafficked people or something like that.

[002yb]

It’s only in hindsight that Damian realizes he was baited.

Indignation does little to disguise the embarrassed flush that stings the tips of his ears.  Though Damian should know better, he is not above falling victim to Grayson’s masterful machinations in manipulation. 

It’s one of the man’s more admirable skills no matter how it irritates Damian to have that cunning and guile used against him.

Harmless as the consequences end up being, Damian’s pride can only handle so much.  To be tricked into a game of proving favorites was childish to begin with. 

Grayson and he both know there’s no competition when it comes to which of them holds Jason’s most ardent affections.

In spite of that, Grayson’s goading gets the best of him.  It’s with some level of irritation that he realizes this, too, is Grayson’s fault.

Because it hasn’t been lost on Damian that the man has been toeing a line with Damian’s nursemaid and that Jason has been—for lack of better words—keenly receptive. 

All their shared patrols are littered with his caretakers’ flirtations and neither of them own up to their dalliances and tomfoolery.  For all intents and purposes they are content to carry on with distracting one another and pretending that they’re successful in pulling a fast one on him.

Viewed like this, Damian reasons that his lapse in judgment has nothing to do with any sort of momentary lack of confidence or need to prove his value.  It was simply high time for Damian to remind these two fools of their place.

Which is why Damian accepts Grayson’s inane competition on who Jason would hug first between them.  It’s also why Damian shoves Grayson out of the way and takes a flying tackle in Jason’s direction.

(No rules were established, so it’s ’fair game,’ as the saying goes.  Just because Damian is certain of his place in the hierarchy of Jason’s relationships doesn’t mean he’ll take chances or accept threats made upon it).

Damian is caught, of course, even as Jason startles over how Dick crashes over what Damian will only attest to being collateral damage in his row to ascertain victory.

It’s the easy smile on Grayson’s face that exposes this farce for what it is though.  His lilting laugh makes Damian scowl as he continues to hug his nursemaid.  And it’s only because he’s making threatening gestures in the man’s direction that he sees it:  how Grayson’s gaze lingers on Jason, soft, smitten, and unwavering; how his smile becomes something honest and crooked and boyish.

Because Jason is pleased, Damian realizes.  Because Damian is the one Jason holds the most love for and it’s been an age since Damian has let himself be held like this.  There’s a blush that sits pretty across Jason’s cheeks and pinks his ears; a smile that’s both sharp and shy.  He hasn’t a clue what transpired, but Damian’s nursemaid has always been smart—it doesn’t take him long to puzzle something out when he follows all the evidence.

It’s sweet, Damian supposes, for Grayson to be mindful in this way; to spoil Jason as he deserves.

Still, he glares and pointedly clicks his tongue at the man even as Damian continues clinging to Jason.  He will let the man’s behavior slide for today, but he’ll provide no guarantees for the future, though it may benefit him to show Grayson his place every so often; to reassure Jason of his.