jasontoddswhitestreak

[jasontoddswhitestreak]

Two Wrongs

Roy Harper/Reader, 1.1K words Kinktober entry 14: Voyeurism Warnings: (Accidental) Non-con voyeurism | Tight spaces Requested by: Authors choice

Watching your roommate getting off through a crack in his wardrobe door certainly wasn't how you’d planned to spend your evening, but it was just one of those situations, you know, like quicksand, once you're in, it becomes increasingly difficult to get back out.

It had all started months ago when he had eaten the last of your leftover pizza. You'd gotten him back by putting glitter in one of his caps. He'd retaliated by stealing ALL of your socks, so you'd tied all of his shoes together by their laces with the most complex knots you could find tutorials for online. The war had been raging ever since. Most recently, Roy had ‘you-proofed’ every drawer, cabinet, and door in the apartment with a bunch of contraptions of his own design. Many of which now lay broken in his scrap bin, destroyed by your impatience.

You'd been in the process of hiding a series of miniature Green Arrow figures around his bedroom when he’d unexpectedly arrived home early. With zero forethought, you'd simply thrown yourself into his closet and hoped he'd either leave or fall asleep soon. Neither were the case.

You watched through a seam in the hatch as Roy entered his room, your jaw falling slack when he'd immediately unzipped his cargo trousers and started palming his dick through his boxers upon closing the door.

He doesn't bother surveying his surroundings, why would he? This should be his safe space. As he approaches the bed, he kicks off his shoes and socks. You're treated to the sight of his captivatingly firm and freckled ass when he removed his bottoms before finally, he falls unceremoniously upon the bed, still donning his cap and tank top.

You shouldn’t look, you tell yourself. You absolutely should not look. This is a huge breach of trust, and you'd never intended to see Roy naked, at least not like this. Yet, a depraved curiosity possesses you.

It's big. Bigger than you’d imagined, but not intimidatingly so. More, mouth-wateringly so. Thick, cut, straight, and surrounded by a thicket of fiery red hair to match that on his head.

The whole scene is strangely hypnotic; his even, rhythmic strokes, the sordid slap of his spit-slicked hand meeting the base of his cock while he so casually scrolls through his phone. You could watch him all day, but you can't. This goes far beyond a prank, and it certainly isn't fair to him.

You're not brave enough to come clean, you've seen too much. So you gently lean away from the door, closing your eyes and trying to block out the raunchy sound of Roy's heavy breathing until it’s over. Hopefully, he’ll shower or fall asleep after and you can sneak out then.

You're not expecting to hear a voice, so your heart almost stops when you hear someone squeal his name. Shit. Had he called someone? Was he seeing someone? You're struck with a pang of jealousy until you realise the voice in question is your own.

“Ahh, Roy! Are you filming me?” It’s quiet, and tinny but there’s no doubt in your mind. You can even recall when he’d recorded it; Back in the early days of your prank battle, on a hot summer day. You'd been strewn out on the couch, half-asleep in a moderately skimpy outfit that you certainly hadn’t hoped would grab Roy’s attention when you'd noticed him hovering over you with his camera. At the time you’d just assumed it was ammo for some harmless joke. Evidently not.

Peeking through the door again, you watch once more as he continues to stroke his dick, freckled cheeks growing ruddy, jaw tight as he loses himself more and more, eyes fixate on his phone screen as he uses his thumb to repeatedly rewinds back to the first few seconds of the clip. “Ahh, Roy! Ar- Ahh, Roy! Are y- Ahh, Roy!”

The debauched symphony of Roy getting off to the sound of your voice has your body feeling feverish, and you have to fight the urge to grind your nails into the wooden panel that separates you from your housemate. You’re not sure which you want more, to stuff your hand between your legs and knead you’re aching sex in time with Roy’s thrusts, or to exit your hiding spot, climb his husky, tattooed body, and ride him until you’re both completely and utterly fucked. Paralyzed by indecision, you instead watch him, restlessly motionless as he starts to lose control.

The phone falls from Roy’s hand as he bucks his way to the finish line, your name becoming a quiet, breathless prayer on his lips whilest he fucks into his hand from beneath. His eyes close, and he chews on his bottom lip, muscles growing tight until he finds his climax. You watch spellbound as an obscene amount of thick, white cum leaks from his cock, dripping down onto his hand. Wilder, stray droplets launch high, landing on his shirt but Roy neither cares nor notices as he writhes deeper into the mattress, riding out a full body high until he has nothing left to give.

You’re just as fascinated, watching him lay near motionless, enjoying the aftershock, as you had been observing the climax. There had always been tension between the two of you, but you’re starting to realise that you might be down worse than you’d thought.

Eventually, Roy returns to the land of the living, slowly shifting back up. With his clean hand, he removes his cap and pulls his soiled shirt over his head, using it to mop up the mess he’d made of himself and throwing it out of your limited line of sight. Whatever he was aiming for, you don’t doubt he made the shot.

Though you’re disappointed that the show is over, you’re growing angsty at being confined to the four walls of his closet, so when he kicks his legs over the side of the bed you get excited. The prospect of escape is so close you can taste it, until he grabs his phone once more. If he goes down a rabbit hole, you could be stuck here for hours you think, as he taps away at the touchscreen. You’re about to slink back against the wall and try to get comfortable when you’re heart drops. You feel it first, the buzz in your back pocket followed by the custom ringtone Roy had picked out for himself. Instinctively, your arms fumble to grab your phone and turn it off but Roy’s head has already snapped in your direction, his face looking as pale and as panicked as you feel on the inside.  

If you're reading this, you have impeccable taste.

Kinktober Masterlist

[jasontoddswhitestreak]

"It's always open for you"

Roy Harper x reader

Summary: startled awake, you found yourself caring for someone. Or Roy seeking shelter.

Word count: 2 053

CW: the grammar is dead/English isn't my first language | hurt comfort | self loathing | minor character death | mention of drugs/drugs addiction

The sudden metallic sound in your quiet apartment woke you up like someone threw a bucket of iced water at you. Eyes wide opened, breath stopping, you tried to focus on any other sound. But nothing made its way to your ears, forcing you to leave the safety and comfort of your bed. Straightening up, you caught the angry red number of your alarm clock reading three A.M. Before deciding anything, you unlocked your phone. Maybe one of your friends had texted you they were going to crash tonight, and it was just them being clumsy. However, as you had thought, there weren't any messages. Whoever, or whatever, was in your apartment wasn't supposed to be here.

Putting your feet on the cold wooden floor, your eyes were trained on the door, expecting any possible and terrifying scenarios. Gaze not leaving the only thing separating you from the intrusion, you blindly extended your arm to your nightstand, taking the gun out of the drawer. Thankfully you had lived, not to say survived, long enough in Gotham to know that anything could happen. Even more at night. The city was a hellhole, and most of your relatives had tried many times to talk you out of it. Sure Gotham wasn't a forgiving city but at least it was a rather cheap one. And that, in your mind, was enough of an argument to stay. Despite being dangerous, in the years you had lived in Gotham, someone breaking in your apartment was a first.

Standing up, you tiptoed to your bedroom door, tightening your grip on the gun. The door cracking open made you cringed at the noises. You waited a moment, holding your breath trying to see if the intruder had heard it. Judging by the dead silence, you got on your merry way, hugging the walls of the hallway. You didn't see any lights on, but you heard shuffling noises confirming that someone was here.

The silence was heavy on your side as you crept to your living area, desperately trying to avoid the creaking part of your old wooden floor. Why was this happening? You were racking your brain trying to see if you had angered anyone enough. But again, you were living in Gotham, no one needed an excuse to break into someone's house. No one needed excuses to steal and even kill. But that couldn't be occurring. Not to you.

However, the closer you got to your goal, the more your resolve started to waver. Hands slightly shaking as you brought the gun upward. You couldn't possibly die tonight, you had too much to see and live. But could you kill someone to survive? How were you supposed to live with yourself after that? Blood would be on your hands, even if it was from self defense, you were confident your mind would never recover from it.

Taking in a deep trembling breath, you collected all the determination left inside, trying to persuade yourself that you would be fine, that you could do this.

And just when you were going to switch the lights on, the fridge was being opened, forcing you to retreat to the wall to hide. You swallowed with difficulty, not sure what to do next. Maybe it was a simple robber, and being robbed was better than being dead. But then you guessed you would have to make a statement to the police. One that was going to get nowhere. The worst being to have to buy everything all over again. Now you were frustrated more than anxious and scared. You guessed that was what the people here meant by becoming a true gothamite.

And Not hearing the fridge's door closing added to your building anger. Worrying about your bills, you craned your head to see who was disturbing your night out of pure spite. Squinting your eyes, you saw a familiar figure looking inside the fridge, ginger hair visible thanks to the blue lights explaining why. Trailing your gaze a little down you discerned what you assumed were splatters of blood, then looking around, you spotted the well-known bow resting on your small kitchen island, next to a green cap.

Retreating back to the wall, you pinched the bridge of your nose. Unbelievable. You had started panicking over none other than Roy Harper. Obviously that was him. He was the only one who would show up unannounced at three A.M like that. You felt a chill run up your spine as the last drop of adrenaline left your body.

Composure back on track, you left the refuge that you found against the wall and walked into your living room, switching the lights on. The intruder's head immediately snapped upward, possibly startled by the sudden lights.

“For heaven's sake Roy, close that damn door.” You were frustrated by the redhead, eyebrows furrowed and jaw set.

Standing up, the vigilante executed your demand, an apologetic smile painted on his face. “Sorry..”

That when you settle your eyes on him, taking the time to really look at him in a better light. He was, indeed, covered in what you hope was dry blood, bruises starting to swelled on his bare arms, busted lips. He was harboring a defeated expression. He was tired. And knowing the man, you guessed he needed shelter. You couldn't possibly know what he had been through that night, against whom he had to fight, but that had obviously taken a toll on him. And even with the mask, you just knew he wasn't looking at you.

Letting out a small sigh, you made your way to Roy, getting around the kitchen island stopping in front of him. Slowly you took the soda out of his calloused hand, putting the can on the island, never letting go of his hand, pulling him with you to the bathroom. He didn't protest, didn't try to, letting you do as you pleased. His hand was cold in yours. You silently hoped you were able to give him some warmth.

Pushing the bathroom door open, switching the lights one, you indicated for Roy to get comfortable on the closed toilet seat. He did without saying anything, which at this point was pretty out of character for him. He was wrapped deeply in his own head, that did well to worry you. But that wasn't the time for this. So quickly, you gathered what you needed; disinfectant, elastic bandages, salt water, tweezer and cotton balls. As you kept looking for anything else, you eyed the bottle of painkiller, not sure if the vigilante was going to accept some. Even if his addiction issues were now far away and dealt with, you knew Roy was still refusing what he qualified as unnecessary drugs.

So you simply turned your head to him, taking care to keep the bottle of pills in the cabinet. “Do you need painkillers?” You asked softly, not holding any judgment or pity.

At your question, he shaked his head. Of course he wasn't going to take some. And thankfully, the state Roy was in wasn't the worst you saw him be. So physically speaking, you

weren't truly worried.

Nudging his legs, you settled in between, taking his mask away revealing the green eyes hidden underneath. And as you had thought earlier, he wasn't looking at you. “Hi there stranger.” You whispered softly, scared you would startle him away if you raised your voice just a notch too much.

Taking the man's chin with your unoccupied hand, you started to wipe the dried blood off his face You both stayed silent. You were focused on your task, not caring one bit about the emerald eyes finally settling on you, studying each parcel of your skin.

It felt like it was the first time Roy really took the time to look at you that night. You weren't supposed to see him like that. You weren't supposed to see him all weak and defeated. Why did he have to come here, really? He could have, should have gone to Jason's. You didn't need that. Landing his eyes on yours, the vigilante felt even more guilty seeing the fading dark circle below them. Of course he had to be clumsy, putting his bow down a little too harshly on your kitchen island. Why did he have to be like that?

“I'm sorry I woke you up.” The sudden sound almost startled you as you finished with his face. You didn't answer right away, slightly turning away, throwing your things in the trash.

Turning back toward him with the roll of elastic bandages in hand, you locked your gaze in his. “I know.” You were sincere, frustration and anger far gone. “You're lucky it's my day off today, but you could have texted though.” You added, trying to light up the room while you started delicately wrapping the swollen bruises on Roy's Arms.

Looking up from your task at hand, you saw the small shadow of a smile shaping the man's lips before he winced, the cut on his lips stinging. Done with the bruises, you took the last items you hadn't used yet, and started working on the busted lips. And after around twenty or so minutes, you were done fixing up the vigilante.

“Feeling better?” You asked, putting your stuff back inside the cabinet.

Turning back to him, hips leaning against the furniture, you watched as Roy stood up stretching his entire body, before sitting back. “I'll survive. Thanks.”

Another wave of silence settled above your heads. Neither of you had moved, waiting for the other to talk, to say anything. Knowing he wasn't going to, you indulged first, “Roy, what happened?” Your worries were back on track, showing in your voice even.

The vigilante wasn't looking at you anymore, eyes focused on the tiles of your bathroom floor. Of course he knew you weren't going to drop it, that wasn't in your nature to do so. You were stubborn. Always asking, harassing him to tell you what he had on his mind when he was feeling down. Now being no different. Strangely, this part of you reminded him of how Dinah was with Oliver sometimes. That was why he complied, raising his head back, locking eyes with yours, a resigning sigh crossing his lips. “Mission went south. A kid didn't make it.”

This time, you were the one looking anywhere but at him. You could have guessed it was going to be something along those lines. He had probably projected Lian into the kid he failed to protect and save. That was why he was here, he couldn't get home to his daughter. He was ashamed. Fearing anything could happen to his girl if he stayed too long.

“Did you call or text Jason? Or Oliver?” You inquired, not knowing how to comfort him. You weren't even sure he wanted to be comforted. Casting your eyes back on the redhead, you watched him negatively shaked his head. Nodding you continued your interrogation. “You wanna sleep here?”

“Yeah, that would be cool. If it's OK with you.” He wasn't trying to fight you anymore, he was too tired to do so. Deciding to take everything you were going to give him instead.

It was odd how he felt around you. Your apartment had grown into his refuge over time. He was safe here, away from his problems. It had crossed his mind that you were too good for him. Or just like with Lian, something terrible was going to happen to you solely because you were around him.

He had tried in the past to drive you away. Trying to explain why it wasn't good to be in his inner circle. But you never listened. Instead you told him how stupid he was for even considering you were going to leave because he'd asked you too. There was no getting rid of you, was the first thing you told him. Your apartment would always be open for him, was the second. The last thing you told him that day, before closing the door to his face, was that you would always, always, have a place for him in your life and heart.

So instead of walking away from your life, he had decided to take you words for it.

Maybe hit a reblog?

[jasontoddswhitestreak]

17+ content, blank blogs dnf

just bsf!dick grayson making you squirt and calling you babe... as a friend of course

“you mean- never?” dick grayson inquires in a flat tone, almost in disbelief. you confirm with a simple and high pitched nope, speaking of all the times you’ve failed to cum using just your hand.

he’s ecstatic at the idea, even if he suspects it’s your attempt of getting him back in your bed. he’s subject to details like this, being your best friend. not to mention you’ve had conversations similar before; but this time is different. this time, you’re having a casual conversation about your bland sex life a week after dick got the chance to fuck the lights out of you; and the chance wasn’t missed, nor a regret. so yes, he sees the bait, and he’s more than happy to take it.

like the clever bastard he is, dick gets you to give him the green light rather than blatantly falling for it. I've slept with people like that, he boasts, you know me though. a few more sneaky remarks and you're sucking the inside of your cheek in defeat before you tell him to 'demonstrate'.

now he’s got a hand down your shorts, carefully situating you into his lap and keeping a steady hand pinching at the fat of your hips. "how's that?" dick asks, circling your clit with generous pressure before slipping right inside. his fingers hit you deep, way deeper than your own or anyone else's, and that little fact has him all the more eager.

calculated efforts nudge at that sweet spot and you gasp, thighs flinching and giving him more room to get a little deeper. you glance at him with an almost awkward expression but he’s already enthralled, lazily tugging your shorts down a bit further with a hungry glint in his eye.

“it’ll feel better when you calm down,” dick coos at you, a sly hand slipping under your shirt to brush over a hardened nipple. “relax for me.” he’s gentle with you despite his brewing impatience, scissoring and spreading your cunt open on his fingers to coax you out of your nervousness. you start rolling your hips and his fingers curl way deeper, eyes shooting open with a soft cry of his name.

“it feels…“ you start with a pleasurable hitch of breath, “feels-“

“good?” he finishes the thought for you with a particularly deep thrust, “I know, sweetheart, but it’ll get better.”

his thumb barely touches your clit and you tremble, arms clinging around his neck as you gasp and whine right into his ear. pretty little noises just for him as his free hand palms your breast, urging you closer and closer into him until you’re moaning into his mouth. from this angle his kisses are sloppy, swallowing up your keens as he finds the speed that has you writhing in his lap.

“yeah- keep doin’ that,” dick manages between kisses, spreading your legs wider as you twitch around him and you swear you hear him moan with you. “just like that, baby- fuck, you’re gorgeous.”

“dickie,” you whine, half outta your mind with pleasure, “‘m close- so close, please-“

“I know, sweets, give it to me-“ he pants with you, lips loosely catching yours just before he catches the perfect angle inside you, “cum for me, pretty girl, c’mon.“

your hips grind into his leg a few more times and you cry, holding dick close and practically crumbling in his grasp as you leak around his knuckles. dick talks you through what feels like a never ending orgasm and his hand fails to stop moving, mesmerized by what he’s pulled out of you, sticky fluids dripping into his palm as your pussy squelches around his fingers and you whine.

“dick, I- shit- I just-“

“I know, babe,” he confirms with a pleased grin, still holding you in his lap with the perfect view of your mess. “relax, remember? lemme try something.”

dick shuffles from beneath you until you’re sitting right on top of his cock, throbbing through flimsy pajamas while he works out a new angle. you’re dazed and a bit confused, still trembling in overstimulation until the coil swells into another rapidly approaching orgasm. he’s nudging at your g-spot over and over with more intensity, kissing at your shoulder while groping your tits and it has you damn near tears.

“you feel that, yeah?” he checks, “deep in your tummy? let it go, baby- let me see it.”

you can’t wrap your head around what he’s looking for, but you give it to him regardless- head hanging over his shoulder with a desperate whine and arching away from dick. distantly, you feel the fabric under you, soaked beyond what you thought normal as he trails off in praise over your moans. “goddamn, that was gorgeous- all for me, huh?” his fingers pump in and out a few more times as the high fades, then removing them to finally rest. “was I the first to see that?”

it takes a moment of recovery—deep and staggered breaths with a low whine before processing the mess. before processing that your best friend just made you fucking squirt.

“oh my god,“ you stumble over words, “i’m sorry, dick, I didn’t-“

“babe,” he cuts you off with the casual endearment again, “you’re telling me no one’s made you do that before?” his hand’s soiled with your slick and cum and he brings it to his mouth with no hesitation, letting you slide out of his lap as his tongue laps around his fingers.

“mm… no,” you mutter while ogling at the hard-on straining his ruined pajamas, “I didn’t… I didn’t even know I could do that,” and after a moment, the awkwardness finally seeps away when he laughs out of content with himself.

“y’think you could give me another?” he asks with no shame, kneeling between your legs with the intent of getting his proper fill. “it’ll be better with tongue, too- when you cum, I mean,” he corrects himself as if he gave away his shameful thirst, like you wouldn’t catch on. like you wouldn’t remember how your best friend’s so easily pussy whipped.

dick doesn’t even give you time to answer his question, though, pulling you to the edge of the couch and suckling on your clit as he locks your thighs around his head. you can tell from the groan that vibrates through you that he’s palming his cock through the fabric drenched in your fluids, and you can tell that he fully intends to pull another orgasm out of you all under the guise of ‘demonstrating’ for you.

“you’re shameless, dick grayson.”

“‘nd you taste good,” he mutters matter-of-factly, “I don’t see how you could blame me.” ❧

[jasontoddswhitestreak]

where are the good Roy Harper fics at???

[jasontoddswhitestreak]

as a girl who is literally just a girl i am always yearning. always longing always missing always wearing my heart on my sleeve. always feeling like my heart is on the verge of exploding. the sight of the sun makes me cry. anyway

[jasontoddswhitestreak]

"came back wrong" this "lived wrong" that, what about dying wrong. my death will forever cling to you, leaving behind a slimy trail and a metallic taste in your mouth. my soul will forever drag you down like the heavy corpse of a long-dead god, who somehow still grants wishes. you can't tell which one of us is the one not letting go. you know not even your own death will end this.

[jasontoddswhitestreak]

Twi | ins

[jasontoddswhitestreak]

DC MASTERLIST

CHARACTER ONE SHOTS

jason todd

new person, same old mistakes

in which jason todd continues to struggle to tame the demons in his mind. angst, mentions of blood and injuries, kinda depressing

midnight love

in which you find yourself in the company of jason todd at midnight in the manor. fluff, jason loving jane austen, pining, fem!reader

bruce wayne

coming soon

[jasontoddswhitestreak]

new person, same old mistakes

summary: in which jason todd continues to struggle to tame the demons in his mind.

warnings: angst, mentions of blood and injuries, this is just really sad and angsty for some reason

word count: 560

a/n: i’ve been reading a lot of dc comics lately and I absolutely love the batfam especially dick and jason, currently reading batman urban legends issue #3 and it gave me this idea, lmk if you want me to write more for the batfam characters, I’m trying to figure out how to write these characters, creds to the artist for their work! It’s so brilliant!

masterlist

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The soft purrs of the engine ceased as he begrudgingly climbed off his motorcycle. Glancing at the newly made scratches on his most prized possession, he winced as he felt the beginnings of a couple bruises forming on his not so delicate skin.

It was a hard night for him, but when has he ever been granted an easy night? Living as the ghost of what used to be Jason Todd, previously known to be ‘The Boy Wonder’, the only one to be killed at the hands of the Joker.

Now known as the Red Hood.

The more he had tried to become a good person, to protect and save the civilians of Gotham, the more he had failed. Would it be possible for Jason to ever be a hero? He wondered. Would he constantly be haunted by his past?

He had been up for 42 hours attempting to deal with the new Cheerdrops issue haunting the city of Gotham due to the presumed to be dead Jonathan Crane, and Jason had no intentions to take a break until Cheerdrops were off the streets.

His mind flickered back to the young child he had met today, who almost had the same fate as Jason did if it wasn’t for Batman intervening.

He knew he could never be a hero like Batman, but he didn’t want to be. He was willing to do what Bruce failed to do.

Kill for those he cares about.

The darkened streets of Gotham began to look less intimidating as the sunlight blanketed over the city. Jason ignored the wounds he bore, the sounds of him dragging his feet echoed the empty halls as he trudged to his room, avoiding the concerned gazes from his family, briefly noticing Alfred stopping Dick from following his brother.

He carelessly tossed his helmet on his bed and made his way to his bathroom. His clothes were torn and bloodied, albeit not all of the blood was his. He couldn’t help but groan as he peeled his clothes off, eyes flickering to the mirror in front of him, allowing him to his wounds clearer, his eyes trailing along with the faded scars that made its way down his torso and along his chest, Jason cleared his throat, moving to take a shower instead of getting lost in his thoughts.

He stood frozen as the ice water pelts hit his skin, the water below him a murky red, watching and waiting for the water to run clear. He didn’t know how long he stood in the shower, what felt like seconds could’ve been hours.

Jason felt as though he was experiencing an outer body experience, wanting to tear himself away from the harsh waters but unable to do so, it was as if he was stuck in his own mind, trapped in a prison forged by the actions of his previous crimes.

The world continued as he stood frozen, flashes of his former self appearing in his mind as he felt the cool droplets run down his neck causing him to shudder.

As he stood in the shower, washing away the sins he committed that day, Jason Todd continued to be haunted by his past, by a young boy donned in yellow, green, red and black, and a striking resemblance to the man Jason saw as he stared into the mirror.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

all works: @yelenabelovasgf @amourtentiaa @husherstan @peggycarter-steverogers @drpepperobsessed @whosedevil @missusstark @hehehehannahthings @rafecameronswhore @secretsthathauntus @idontwannabetherightwayround @crymanny @beliza-styles28 @k3njirou @a-court-of-roscoe-and-baby @jeminiepabo @listenthemoose @cluelessgurl @bilinskiwhore57

[jasontoddswhitestreak]

MIDNIGHT LOVE

summary: in which you find yourself in the company of jason todd at midnight in the manor.

pairings: jason todd x female reader

warnings: none that I can think of, fluff, jason todd loves jane austen

word count: 1k

a/n: this was inspired by @stxrryskygrayson’s recent jason fic i loved it sm <3 creds to the artist for the fanart, I’m fr obsessed with it

masterlist

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The soft glow of the fireplace brightened up the room, it was silent except for the flickers of the flames and the occasional turn of a page, almost eerily silent if it was anywhere else except for Gotham.

The sounds of the busy streets could be heard from the Manor, the lights were off throughout the manor and the halls were empty as she tiptoed her way through the Wayne Manor. She had been there for a couple weeks as a favour from Tim who she struggled to look for that very moment. She hadn’t spoken to the rest of his siblings other than Dick, Damian preferred to analyse her from a distance and Jason rarely spoke to her unless he had to, which rarely happened since he’s hardly around.

“Damian, stop glaring at her like that.” Dick ruffled Damian’s hair, causing the younger boy to aim his glare at his brother instead, Alfred gave her a sympathetic look before continuing to move around the kitchen.

“Jay said he’d meet me in the cave twenty minutes ago, have you guys seen him?” Tim questioned as he walked into the room, causing everyone to shake their head in response.

It was late, she knew that but she also knew the Wayne family lived on an entirely different clock than the rest of the world and had hoped someone would be awake.

Even though many people come in and out of the Manor, she had never felt lonelier, everyone had their own jobs and vigilante missions they did at night while she stayed in the Manor, she felt like a ghost, wandering around the darkened halls to find company. She was grateful of course, anyone would love to be staying in a place like this, however she hadn’t known the price for luxury would be loneliness.

Making her way to the main room, she noticed the soft flickers of the flames in the fireplace, casting a soft glow in the room. The curtains remained open,

Allowing the twinkling lights of Gotham to peer into the room, from where she stood she could see a light beaming into the night sky, the recognisable bat signal that towered over the city.

She hadn’t noticed how long he had been sitting there until she heard the low rasp of his voice, unusually soft for someone who donned the name ‘red hood’ as a vigilante.

“you're just going to stand there?” He questions, eyes not leaving the book he read as he sat facing towards the fireplace.

The flames casted a warm glow on Jason’s face, causing his demeanor to look less intimidating than usual, he sat with one leg resting on the thigh of the other, his usual leather jacket had been discarded for a simple black T-shirt.

She didn’t realise she was staring until he mentioned it.

“So you’re just going to stand there and stare at me, huh?” He continued sarcastically before finally looking up at her.

“Oh- I didn’t mean to disturb you.” She finally spoke out, he shook his head in response, motioning at the chair across from him, asking her to sit.

“I haven’t seen you in a while, thought you left.” He spoke as she sat down, glancing at the books scattered on the table in between them and picking one up.

“I didn’t want to bother anyone or get in the way of everything.” She hesitated, eyes glancing over at the book in her grasp, taking in the worn cover and the annotations on the first couple pages, the unmistakable ‘property of jason todd’ scribbled at the front.

“Can I?…” she asked, signalling at the point in her hands, Jason nodded in response before going back to his own book, every couple moments or so she’d notice him jot something down on the edges of the page before continuing to read.

In her grasp was a heavily worn copy of pride and prejudice, she knew by the condition of it that he had read the book more than once. Each time he had read it he’d add something new to his annotations.

For a while the two sat in comfortable silence, as if they’ve done it a hundred times before, she didn’t feel the need to say something to fill the silence, allowing the words on the pages in front of her to take over her mind instead.

Occasionally she’d glance up and watch as he read, watching as his gaze moved across the page, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration, she couldn’t help but admire him as he did so, knowing he was too busy in his own bubble to be disturbed by her actions.

Her eyes traced over the scars littered over his face and arms, scars that were clearly once knife wounds. Every couple moments he’d stretch his arms as if leaning his back on the chair caused him discomfort.

She was in awe of him, watching as his fingers gently turned the pages, the gentleness of his actions a stark contrast to his vigilante actions.

Her eyes would flicker back to her own book when she’d feel his attention waiver, not wanting to be caught by him but once his sharp eyes met hers she knew she was caught, quickly glancing back at the book in her lap to pretend she hadn’t been caught.

He cleared his throat, hesitating before speaking.

“You can keep the book, if you want.” He offered, glancing at the book in her hand, she followed his gaze before looking back at him, attempting to cover her surprise.

“I’ll give it back once I’m done.” She offered and he hummed in response, she stretched her arm out in front of her, reaching for a pen from the pack that were scattered on the coffee table before moving to add her own annotations to the book, brows furrowed in concentration.

She missed his soft gaze on her, watching as she flickered through the previous pages to add more annotations, missing the beginning of a smile to form on his face as he continued to watch her before shaking his head and focusing his gaze to his book.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

all works: @yelenabelovasgf @amourtentiaa @husherstan @peggycarter-steverogers @drpepperobsessed @whosedevil @missusstark @hehehehannahthings @rafecameronswhore @secretsthathauntus @idontwannabetherightwayround @crymanny @beliza-styles28 @k3njirou @a-court-of-roscoe-and-baby @jeminiepabo @listenthemoose @cluelessgurl @bilinskiwhore57

[jasontoddswhitestreak]

HARRY POTTER UNIVERSE MASTERLIST

sirius black

proud of you

in which sirius never had someone tell him they're proud of him. angst, panic attacks

[jasontoddswhitestreak]

STAR WARS MASTERLIST

anakin skywalker masterlist

more coming soon

[jasontoddswhitestreak]

MARVEL MASTERLIST

CHARACTER MASTERLISTS

druig masterlist

natasha romanoff masterlist

pietro maximoff masterlist

peter parker masterlist

CHARACTER ONE SHOTS

thor odinson

“it's called a WHAT?"

when you go ikea shopping with thor for furniture for your bedroom. fluff!

loki laufeyson

undying attention

where loki gives his undying attention to nobody but you. fluff!

tony stark

behind the armour

where you helps a closed off Tony with a panic attack which leads to her telling him what he really needed to hear. (post civil-war & pre infinity war) angst + slight fluff

[jasontoddswhitestreak]

this fic got me kicking my feet in the air while giggling

[comes to you like an old timey journalist]

Ay kid, I got something for ya..

Bruce Wayne intimacy, caring for him, washing the dirt and grime out his hair, helping alfred stitch his wounds and make him eat and sleep, reassuring Dick when things look bad, being there for him when he feels he has nobody…. ya know…. the good stuff

it's just a feeling

pairing: bruce wayne x reader (gn pronouns)

rating: t

word count: 4,296

one-sentence synopsis: bruce returns from a night out as the batman in gotham, and you remind him what it is to just be bruce, and to let himself be taken care of, for just a little while.

author's note: oh god the intimacy........... a hot scoop if ever i had one buckaroo

read on ao3!

You’re usually lucky if Bruce is home before dawn.

Tonight, you’re not so lucky.

The sun’s already started to spread back up into the sky, beams of dim grey light fighting through Gotham’s near-constant cloud cover. The curtains are drawn throughout Wayne Manor, however, keeping the palatial spread of Bruce’s home in darkness until he’s actually ready to start his day later.

Alfred joins you in the window, watching the trees outside the estate, waiting for the telltale flash of neon and the rumbling engine that promise the Batmobile’s back— that Bruce is back, that another night as Batman is over, that he’s survived long enough to come home to you once more.

When you see it, you visibly relax. The house is so silent that the distant purr of the engine seems like the loudest crash. When it skims underneath the property, vanishing into the bowels of Wayne Manor, Alfred sighs beside you. You glance over at him.

“Another night,” Alfred says. He doesn’t elaborate before he turns to make his way to the elevator that’ll take him down to the Batcave, and you follow after him. You don’t speak, either; there’s really nothing that needs to be said, right now. The two of you have long since fallen into a routine with Bruce. As the two (adult) people who live with him, who take care of him, who love him most, it’s difficult for you to see Bruce like this.

You hear pounding footsteps before the elevator doors close, and then a tiny hand is slamming in, stopping them from shutting. Dick stares up at you from the other side as the doors snap back open. He still looks half-asleep, pillow lines on his face, pajamas as rumpled as his hair, but he’s alert enough to glare at the both of you.

“Is he home?” Dick asks. His jaw cracks around a yawn in the next second, and you hold your hand out to him.

“He is,” you tell him as Dick comes to you, slipping his hand into yours. He leans into your leg sleepily, letting his eyes drift shut as he yawns again. “You, however, should be asleep.”

“I want to make sure he’s okay,” Dick informs you. It’s just an explanation, not an argument.

Alfred crouches, and Dick steps into the circle of his arms, letting him lift him up onto his hip. Dick refuses to release your hand, clinging tightly as Alfred keeps him close.

The elevator dings into place in the dark subterranean Batcave, the doors clattering open. You can see the Batmobile at the far end of the space, the lights still glowing as the machine cools down enough to be turned off again, and the shadowy shape of Bruce moving through the aisles of worktables and equipment. His cowl, cape, and armor are all still in place, though you can see a fray in the material near his eye, a tear along the left edge of the cape, a chunk ripped out of the armor covering one thigh.

You’ll need to make repairs today and patch together other armor for him to take when he goes out tomorrow night; the last thing you’d ever do is let him go out with less than perfect protection from you.

Bruce finally lifts his eyes, when he’s drawn close enough. You can see the bright glint of them as they hit you first.

In that moment, there’s no filter, no screen, no divide; the wall that Bruce likes to hide behind most often isn’t there, and he’s just looking at you, connecting with you, raw and exhausted and worn. Your lips part slightly; you’re not sure if you need a breath, or if you’re going to say something.

“Bruce!” Dick exclaims, wriggling to get out of Alfred’s arms. The both of you release him, and he sprints to Bruce, colliding with his legs. You don’t miss the way Bruce staggers backwards, catching himself against the worktable behind them.

He still wraps an arm around Dick in response. He bows to hold him for a moment before he lifts him.

“You should be asleep,” Bruce informs him. It sounds like he’s trying to be stern, but he’s landing at slightly concerned instead.

“I just wanted to say hi,” Dick says. He pulls at Bruce’s cowl, and so Bruce reaches up to tug it off, dropping it aside. He looks absolutely fucking exhausted, his face drawn, hair crushed flat, skin wan and split here and there. You can’t see the bags under his eyes, smudged as the space around his eyes is with impossible amounts of reflective black paint, but you know there’s going to be tired bruises there when his face is clean again

“Hi,” Bruce tells him. “When did you go to sleep?”

Dick immediately appears sheepish, and lies, “Eight o’clock.” Bruce looks up at you and Alfred for confirmation, and Dick hurries to correct himself, saying, “I meant ten!”

“You shouldn’t stay up so late,” Bruce tells him, moving to set him down again. “You need your rest. Go back to sleep, kid, okay?”

Listen to your own goddamn advice, you can’t help yourself from thinking. It’s different, you know that. And you can’t help being impossibly endeared by how deeply Bruce cares about Dick and his well-being, even if it’s offset by the obvious contrast in how little he cares about himself and his own well-being.

At least, you think, he has you. And Alfred, and Dick, you mentally amend, but mostly you, because Alfred keeps Bruce functional and the house running, and Dick keeps Bruce balanced and controlled and happy, but you keep Bruce alive. You care for him the same way he cares for Gotham: absolutely, without concern for yourself, determined to do this one job right and protect what matters most to you.

Dick is frowning, but Bruce says, “Alfred, would you?” anyway.

Alfred extends his hand, and Dick hesitates for a rebellious moment before he gives in. He must still be tired, and you wonder how long he waited up after you put him to sleep still waiting for Bruce. You’re sure he’s still lying about ten o’clock, but you’re not about to call him out on it, not right now. Later, you can try and convince him about the merits of a good night’s sleep, even when his father— or, father figure, or mentor, as they insist, but you know better— is setting a terrible example.

“I’ll return in a moment,” Alfred informs you both, but Bruce waves him off, already turning away to start unfastening the latches on his armor.

“No need, Alfred,” Bruce replies. “I’m all set tonight, you can go to bed. Thanks for waiting up.”

Alfred is obviously skeptical, hesitant, and he’s about to argue with him before the two of you make eye contact. You and Alfred have gotten excellent at nonverbal communication; it’s easy for you to talk about Bruce without Bruce ever hearing a word.

Now, Alfred lifts an eyebrow at you slightly. You incline your head. When Alfred’s eyes flick over to Bruce, then back to you, you shake your head slightly, a small furrow coming between your brows.

I can still come back, he’s saying.

No, you tell him, I’ll take care of him. I can do this.

“Get some rest, Alfred,” you tell him. Alfred nods, now, surrendering Bruce to your care. It doesn’t look like Bruce has been busted up in any major ways, no enormous lacerations or deep injuries that need immediate wound care from somebody trained under fire. When Bruce needs a different kind of care, it’s better if it’s only you there. He tries so hard to stay strong for Dick and Alfred, no matter how often you— all of you— insist he doesn’t have to.

You all love him, and he loves you all. The hard part is just convincing him that it’s as true in one direction as it is in the other. You have an unconditional love for him, as does Alfred, as does Dick— but Bruce is terrified that he’ll someday still find the one condition that’ll stop that love, the one thing that will leave him alone again.

He loved so deeply before, only to lose everything, to be broken completely. He’s always so terrified to love again— to lose again— but you know that he’s losing every second he’s not letting himself love.

When Alfred and Dick vanish behind the closed elevator doors, the machine carrying them up and away into the proper body of Wayne Manor, you return your attention more fully to Bruce.

With nobody here but the two of you, Bruce is starting to crumple. He grasps for the fixture on the cape, and you step up without hesitation, stretching to unclasp it yourself. You send the fabric slithering to the floor. It’s important; of course, it’s important. Everything Bruce makes for Batman is important.

Bruce, however, is more important, and takes precedence over his uniform. You unwind the wraps from his hands, freeing each finger in turn until his bruised hands are free. Each piece of his armor gets separated and set aside next, either placed on a worktable or dropped to the floor to join the cape. You’ll pick it up later, or Alfred will, or Bruce himself will; whoever gets to it first. Right now, it doesn’t matter. They’re just things, just clothes. They can be mended in time. Bruce needs mending immediately, needs care he can’t wait for.

When you’ve got him down to his tight black boxer briefs and his black undershirt— all soaked in sweat— you can take a better catalogue of his injuries.

Really, compared to other nights, it’s not that bad tonight. There’s a long cut looping near his hip that must’ve slipped through his armor; luckily, though it stretches for a fair length, it’s shallow. A slightly deeper cut is near his collarbone, and there’s a few fresh bruises, which you’ve grown horribly used to.

“C’mon,” you tell him, and take his hand to guide him. He grabs his notebook on the way, letting you take him upstairs into the proper house, through the dark, twisting hallways and up the stairs to his bedroom.

In the enormous bathroom attached to his bedroom, you sit Bruce down on the edge of the bathtub. You run the hot water, letting the rushing sound fill the room, steam thick with heat following after. In that roaring silence, Bruce scribbles in his notebook, his hand flying in his struggle to keep up with the pace of his own thoughts.

While he works and the bathtub fills, you start examining his wounds. His skin prickles everywhere your fingers drag. You make a soft noise when you see a little fresh blood around the injury near his collarbone, and his eyes flick up to meet yours.

“I’m going to stitch this one,” you tell him.

He nods, then says, “Thank you,” his voice rough. You nod, leaning in to kiss his cheek, tasting paint and sweat and dirt and God knows what the fuck else.

Bruce keeps up his rapid scribbling while you dig out the massive first aid kit you and Alfred keep under the sink for him in here. You clean the wound on his hip first, then neatly close it with butterfly stitches. He barely seems to notice. When you move up to his collarbone, he switches to writing with his other hand. He only reacts once, when you first dab this wound; his expression tightens a bit, the muscles in his jaw jumping.

You move more carefully, cleaning out the deeper cut as tenderly as possible. He doesn’t respond again, still writing, mumbling softly to himself as he works. It’s a rhythm the two of you have long since established. In the beginning, he used to apologize a lot. It took you telling him many, many times that you’re here for him, not some changed and different version of him, for him to actually believe you, letting it sink in that he can sometimes just be quiet and think. You know he needs to process his time out as Batman when he gets home; this is just another part of the routine.

You finish cleaning Bruce’s injuries and stitching him up before he’s finished writing. You let the water run a little bit, letting a bit of it out so he can finish up. It’s only once he’s done that you finally allow the bathtub to fill up the entire way. He seems surprised, nearly as if he’s forgotten where he was, when you reach out to lay a hand on his wrist.

“Can I take that?” you ask, and he nods. Slipping the notebook from his hand, keeping his pen inside to keep his place, you tug him into standing again.

He starts to strip off his own undershirt, so you kneel to hook your fingertips in the waistband of his underwear and tug them down. His clothes end up in the laundry basket; the notebook is safely removed to the nightstand in his bedroom; the first aid kit is replaced to its home beneath the sink.

Bruce takes your hand, lets you lower him down into the hot water. His face screws up slightly in response to the heat. You watch Bruce start to sink back into his own body, bit by bit, coming back to you.

The physical sensations are going a long way towards dragging him up out of the trance he usually ends up in when he comes home on nights like these. You roll your clothes up so you can sit on the bathtub’s edge without getting anything wet, your own legs submerged in the water up to your knees.

You stretch to reach for Bruce’s bath sponge. He tilts forward obediently, and you reach down to soak the sponge in water before you bring it up over his back and squeeze it out, letting the water rush down his skin. It drags dirt and grime with it, leaving trails of slightly cleaner skin behind.

You take up Bruce’s soap and start working it through the sponge until there’s a lather. His eyes drift closed when you bring the sponge to his back again, starting to scrub at his shoulder blades, suds washing away the filth that’s gathered on him over the course of the night. You work over every inch of his back, taking care to make sure you don’t miss anything. You go back over it again, to loosen his muscles, and he sighs, his head hanging forward, shoulders slumping.

You take Bruce’s wrist in your hand, stretching out one arm so you can scrub it clean. You do the same with the other, and Bruce tilts his head back to watch you, his bright eyes hazily half-focused on your face as you work.

Every now and then, unable to resist him, you lean in and press a kiss to some part of his face. The corner of his mouth, the space next to his eye, the skin between his brows, the side of his nose. He smiles slightly every time, tipping just a bit into each kiss like he’s chasing after them with half a mind, slowly, drowsily returning to his own body.

While you’re focused on his face, you bring a washcloth up to scrub the paint and sweat and filth away. You swipe under one eye, sponging the paint off of him in sweeps to reveal pale skin and the bruises you knew would be underneath his eyes. You scour his entire face until he’s pink and raw when you bring the filthy cloth away. The thing is stained, but you just chuck it towards the laundry. It’s more important that Bruce is clean than the washcloth is.

You take up the sponge again to bring down between his legs, dipping into the creases near his hips, his thighs. His head tilts back against the rim of the tub, and he shifts. You let your hand glide over his cock once, but there’s no intent. He’s clean, he’s warm, he’s safe, he’s here. That’s all you want— right now, anyways.

Gliding to his inner thigh, you make sure he’s clean everywhere. You scrub behind his knees, along the fine bones of his ankles, winding around and back up the other side. You make sure he’s clean everywhere, not a drop of the night left on him, before you abandon the sponge and take up Bruce’s shampoo instead.

Bruce tips his own head into the water to wet his filthy hair, sweat-soaked and crushed flat to his scalp as it is. He has such beautiful hair, not that he seems to realize it.

You scratch your nails down to his scalp, working out every tiny bit of grit, every speck of dirt, every oil-slick strand. He relaxes under your ministrations, his eyes drifting open and closed and open again, slipping up to find your face. He flickers back and forth as he watches you, a small smile at the edges of his lips.

When his hair is completely washed, you rinse it, then start again. He gets scrubbed twice before you carefully condition his hair, even as he huffs a laugh at you.

“How was it tonight?” you ask, when he starts to engage with you again.

“Mm.” He shifts, the water rippling slightly against the sides of the bath. “It wasn’t bad. Nothing terrible. Just another night in Gotham.”

For Bruce, ‘just another night in Gotham’ can mean anything from stopping a couple of muggings to witnessing somebody’s death, so you’re not about to let him just blow off whatever happened tonight. However, you also know he processes in his own time, so you rinse his hair again before kissing him on the temple.

“Up,” you say. “Get in the shower, let me clean the bathtub.”

“I’m s—”

“Go,” you tell him, and he goes. A trail of dripping water is left behind in tiny puddles in his wake. Really, the bathtub isn’t so hard to clean; you rinse it out twice and it’s mostly fine. You find Bruce in the shower after, his forehead pressed to the tile, hot water cascading over the crown of his head to sluice down his body.

“Come on,” you say. You tangle your fingers with his, and he comes with you to stand on the rug in front of the sink. You stretch to towel his hair dry, combing it with your fingers before you twist to find his actual comb on the counter. He stands still as you comb his hair back for him, then pat him dry all over, kneeling to rub the towel down the backs of his thighs.

Small goosebumps are lifting on his skin when you finish, so you reach for his bathrobe to wrap him in it, soft, dark fabric sliding over his skin. He follows you from the bathroom to his bedroom.

When you’re sitting him down on the edge of the bed, sweeping his hair back from his face, there’s a soft knock at the door. You leave him there with a kiss on the forehead before you go to answer the gentle sound.

On the other side of the door, Alfred waits with a tray. He passes it off to you, asks, “How is he tonight?”

“He’s okay, I think,” you tell him. You glance over your shoulder, and Alfred does the same, the both of you watching as Bruce shuffles himself back against the pillows, still on top of the covers. “Just tired.”

“Aren’t we all?” Alfred asks, and you smile slightly. When you turn back to Alfred, he leans in to give you a kiss on the cheek. “You get some sleep, too. Don’t think your hours have gone unnoticed—”

“Goodnight, Alfred,” you say, giving his hand a squeeze before you balance the tray again. “You get some sleep.”

“Rest assured, I will,” Alfred replies. Raising his voice slightly, he says over your shoulder, “Goodnight, Master Wayne.”

“Goodnight, Alfred,” Bruce says. He looks up, asks, “Is Dick asleep?”

“Soundly,” Alfred replies.

Bruce is smiling when he says, “Thanks, Alfred.”

“Get some rest,” is all Alfred says. He eyes you, says, “The both of you. And eat that,” he adds, pointing at the tray he’s given you. “All of it.”

“Yes, Dad,” Bruce says from the bed. It’s a joke, but it’s not a joke, between them. Every time he makes the joke, the both of them get this smile that makes your chest feel tight, and you’re not even involved. It’s nice, to see Bruce, who sometimes feels like the most well-known orphan in the world, not be completely without a parent.

Alfred bids you both goodnight again before leaving to retire to his own room. You nudge the door shut gently, quietly, before taking the tray he’s brought to Bruce in bed, slipping the cover up and off.

It’s not much— it’s hot oatmeal, and warm water, and cornbread with butter melting in. It’s not food that Bruce makes himself when he’s being specific with what he eats; it’s what Alfred makes him to comfort him.

Bruce accepts the food without comment, leaning back against the pillows to pick at pieces of it. You tear the cornbread and bring a piece to his lips.

He smiles. “You’re feeding me, now?”

“It’s more for me than you,” you tell him. Leaning in slightly and lowering your voice, as if sharing a secret with a co-conspirator, you tell him, “I have a little bit of a crush on you, you know.”

Bruce laughs again, a soft noise that accompanies a bit of pink flushing on his sharp cheeks. You lean in to kiss the corner of his mouth before you feed him the cornbread. His tongue chases the shine of butter on your fingertip, and you smile, too, watching the sleepily joyful edge that he has as he nears sleep.

You can’t help but feel partially responsible for him, right now. For his contentment, for his happiness, for the way he’s stretching lazily and yawning when you know that, before you, he used to come home and lock his bedroom door and collapse in bed until he woke up the next day, if he slept at all. It’s difficult to keep Bruce home— impossible, actually— but you can at least make home a good place while he’s here, can make sure that he’s comfortable and safe and happy while he’s here with you.

Softly, unable to stop yourself, you ask him, “Bruce. Are you happy?”

Bruce looks up from where he’s scraping the last of his oatmeal from the bowl, his brow furrowed. “What makes you ask that?”

Your chest hurts a little bit. “I just wanted to make sure.”

“Oh.” Bruce looks back down at his spoon, then sets it down, abandoning the empty dishware. You take it from him as he says, “I am.”

“Yeah?” you ask.

He reaches out, his long fingers encircling your wrist. You set the empty tray aside, joining him in bed again, bringing him painkillers from the bottle on the bedside table to take with the last of his water.

“Yeah,” he agrees.

He takes the painkillers you offer, then draws you in. You climb over him to get under the covers, bringing them up and around the both of you. Snapping off the light beside the bed, you throw the room into darkness, despite the fact that you know the sun must just be rising outside. For Bruce, this is the time to sleep, the only time. You’re going to make sure not a drop of sunlight comes in to ruin that before he’s ready.

Bruce twists to burrow into you in the darkness. You can’t see each other, but you can feel Bruce wrapping himself around you, burying his face in your throat. His chest is rising and falling steadily, but his face feels warm as he tucks it into your skin.

His lips move slightly, but you can’t hear what he says. Letting your hand drift up, you start carding your fingers through his damp hair, scratching lightly along his scalp.

You press a kiss to his hairline, then whisper, “What was that?”

Bruce takes a soft breath in. The inhale feels a little shaky, but you don’t have time to ask if he’s okay before he’s murmuring again, voice raised slightly from before, “Thank you for not… leaving me alone. Thank you for being here.”

He’s saying that, but he’s saying more, so much more. He’s saying thank you for staying when I told you to go. He’s saying thank you for knowing me better than I know myself. He’s saying thank you for caring for me when I don’t know how. He’s saying I love you and I can’t be alone if it means being without you. He’s saying nobody has ever loved me like this. He’s saying I never thought I had anybody before I had you.

You tighten your hold on him, and he does the same in return. Burying your face in his hair, inhaling the warm soap-clean smell of him, you smile through the burn in your eyes.

“I love you,” you tell him. “You don’t have to thank me for loving you.”

He huffs a laugh that doesn’t feel like it’s humored. You can still feel the smile against your skin, the hot burn of salt-wetness that soaks from his eyes, melting into you.

“I love you,” he murmurs back, voice warm like steam, absorbed by your skin. You kiss his skull, close your eyes, grounding yourself in the feel of him and in the knowledge that he’s here for another night, safe in his bed— your bed— your shared bed— with you, at least once more.

[jasontoddswhitestreak]

Why do you know that rafe is gonna have a love interest in the next season?

@starsvck told me and I believe them 😓💯

[jasontoddswhitestreak]

rafe cameron with a girlfriend that ISN’T me? In season three? A blonde white girl with blue eyes instead of a woc? OBX writers do you hate me I’m literally the perfect candidate for his gf.

[jasontoddswhitestreak]

OK so I’ve been thinking about fic “As the World Caves In” ever since I read it yesterday bc it’s just so tragically beautiful and I love concepts like that. So today I’ve going through my playlists and I hear the song “Wasteland, Baby!” by Hozier and immediately it made me think of your story!! The parallels 🤌 idk I just I would share <3 I really enjoy your writing!!

ahh I love that song!! I added it to my theia playlist if u want to check it out :)