#I LOVE SOUTHERN WAYNES I LOVE

[bruciemilf]

Cannot take my mind off southern! Waynes. Thomas has huge “Texas mom” vibes and I can’t explain it. I just KNOW he was a work dad if that makes sense.

I wanna hear about Thomas Wayne who’d have indents around his mouth from long nights at the hospital, who always reeked of blood but smiled like sunshine spilling on his teeth, who came to work meetings in his scrubs because he didn’t have time to change.

GIVE ME THOMAS WAYNE WHO BABIED HIS EMPLOYEES!

“My god, darlin’, I reckon you didn’t take that break we discussed! Now, I know you wanna show off to them high-heel folk, but you better go and fix yourself a snack and a nap, alright?”

“You’re still supposed to be with the juniors, mentoring don’t end for another month! Your team leader assigned you this? Aw, sugar plum, course it ain’t your fault, lemme handle it, all right?”

He’s stop meetings just to be like, “Hold your horses ya’ll, the boss is calling,” and it’s just Martha or Alfred. I know for a fact he loved bringing Bruce around the office and hospital, too.

[cricket-moth]

you’ve heard clark flustering bruce with midwestern terms of endearment but might I raise you this:

bruce, thinking about what Mister Southern Doctor Thomas Wayne used to call his loves, but in a completely deadpanned delivery: hello babydoll. why are you looking at me like that.

[unclewaynemunson]

Thanks to a conversation I had with @frankenstein-ate-my-left-shoe and @stevesbipanic about this post by @piratefishmama about Scott Clarke helping middle schoolers with sexuality crises I wrote a lil something :)

Scott Clarke has been worrying about Eddie Munson ever since the boy first set foot into his classroom. He was tiny for his age and thin on the verge of being scrawny, with big, scared eyes in a pale face. With his long, dark curls he was the kind of boy who would unavoidably be called names for being too much like a girl, and Scott wasn't surprised that it only took one week before the boy came in with his hair all buzzed off, pulling even more attention to his expressive eyes instead.

Scott was known for worrying about the nerdy kids, and even though it wouldn't be obvious to everyone right away, he immediately noticed that Eddie was one of those. He wasn't the kind of nerdy kid who would sit in the front of the classroom, hanging onto Scott's every word while avidly scribbling down the secrets of the universe that Scott liked to share. No, Eddie was the other kind of nerdy kid: the kind who would often be called dreamy, or imaginative, or quiet, or lazy. The kind who would retreat to the back of the class and get low scores on their tests because they were spending their time sneakily reading comic books underneath the table or staring out of the window with their mind completely elsewhere for hours on end.

Middle school wasn't an easy place for kids like Eddie, as Scott knew all too well. The only thing he could do, as a teacher, was try to make it a little bit more bearable for him. He was glad when the boy took him up on his offer to spend his lunch breaks in the science classroom instead of the cafeteria or the playground. Soon, it became a habit that Eddie would be on the other side of Scott's desk reading his way through some big book while Scott was grading papers or preparing his next lesson.

Scott knew that with patience and kindness, all kids like Eddie would eventually come out of their shell and start trusting him. So he asked about the books Eddie brought first, proceeded to topics like music and games he liked to play later, and eventually could ask him about his home life.

Whenever he'd talk about his books or his music, Eddie's eyes lit up and his smile widened. Scott soon found out that, when Eddie was at ease, he could talk a mile a minute and bounce around the classroom, caught up in his stories with all kinds of excited hand gestures. At those moments, he was nothing like the quiet boy with the haunted look in his eyes who Scott met two months ago.

But Eddie never disclosed much about his personal life. He didn't mention his mother even once and he didn't tell Scott much more than that he was living with his uncle in Forest Hills because his dad was “unavailable” to take care of him.

Scott doubted whether Eddie was much better off living with his uncle than with his father. Judging from the meager lunches he brought with him, the shabby and ill-fitting clothes he wore, and the fact that the man never once came to drop Eddie off or pick him up at school, Scott was skeptical, to say the least.

He started worrying even more when one day, Eddie lingered in the classroom after the last lesson of the day, saying he wanted to ask him a “science question” with a certain dread in his eyes that Scott had never seen there before.

“There's nothing I love more than a good science question,” Scott quickly reassured him. “Tell me, what is it?”

“The other kids,” said Eddie, “Brendon and Mark and, you know... They call me names.” His voice was soft and his eyes were aimed towards the ground as he spoke. “Queer. And fag. And...” He shrugged. “Y'know.” He raised his head up again, big scared eyes meeting Scott's.

“I – I think they're right,” he said, almost in a whisper. “How can you stop being gay?”

And oh, this was a conversation Scott had experience with. He had been a teacher at Hawkins Middle School for almost two decades and there had always been kids he worried about, who would open up to him about this exact topic.

So he sat Eddie down at his desk and patiently talked him through everything the boy needed to know; God knows his trailer park uncle most certainly wouldn't. He told him all about science and nature and feelings and, most importantly, being perfect the way you are, no matter who you love.

More than two hours later, Eddie finally left the classroom with relief in his eyes instead of dread. But Scott kept worrying: Eddie's uncle hadn't so much as called the school to inform where Eddie was. Who was looking out for him after the last school bell rang and the kid rode his bike out of Scott's sight?

Not long after that conversation, Scott finally got to meet Mr. Munson for the first time. He was one of Scott's last appointments of the yearly parent-teacher evening, and Scott half expected him not to show up. But he was right on time, even though he looked almost comically out of place when he walked into the science classroom.

He was exactly what Scott would've imagined of a man living in Forest Hills: washed-up jeans and a worn-down flannel, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, and a gruff frown hidden underneath a faded gray trucker's hat. He walked up to where Scott was seated behind his desk in a few big strides, and Scott couldn't help but think that there was something almost intimidating in merely the way he carried himself. Not exactly the kind of man who radiated safety for a boy like Eddie.

They shook hands and Scott felt rough callouses press against his own chalk-stained fingers.

While Scott talked Mr. Munson through Eddie's grade list – a list that at this point was barely enough to get him into the next grade – Mr. Munson didn't say anything. Only when Scott asked him if he had any questions, he opened his mouth.

“How're the other kids treatin' him?” the man asked him in a thick southern accent.

“It's not easy for him,” Scott answered in all honesty. He wondered how much Eddie told his uncle about what his days at school usually looked like.

Mr. Munson bowed his head. “I know,” he mumbled.

“Eddie is a sensitive kid, he –”

“I know what kinda kid he is,” Mr. Munson interrupted him immediately. It sounded sharp and Scott wondered if he should be worried about Mr. Munson having a temper.

“Of course,” he cautiously retreated. “I just assumed, since I've never seen you at the school before, sir, that you might not be aware of what exactly he has to deal with in here.”

“Maybe you should do less assuming, then,” Mr. Munson answered bluntly. “You think I should be at the school more? Drop Eddie here in the mornin', come pick him up in the afternoon, all that?”

Scott wondered if Mr. Munson was mocking him.

“Well, I think it might be good for Eddie if –”

“You know why I ain't never at the school? 'Cause I'm tryin' my damned best to keep that boy's stomach filled. When should I be at the school, exactly, between my day shift at the quarry and my night shift at the plant?”

“I – I'm sorry,” Scott backpedaled. Suddenly, the frown lines in the tired face of the man in front of him had gotten a different meaning. “I didn't know. You're right, I shouldn't have made assumptions.”

“Look, I dunno how much he shared with you, Mr. Clarke, but I know he looks up to you. So I think you should know that he's the kinda kid who got in trouble at home for bein' “too sensitive.”” He shot Scott a meaningful glance. “Boy was cryin' to me on the phone, 'cause of what his daddy did to him, so I picked him up and drove him here and I made it my mission, as his uncle, to protect him, to shield him, and to take care of him as best as I possibly can.”

Scott had always prided himself on being a good judge of character. He wondered if he had ever been more wrong about somebody before in his life.

“I know he thinks highly of you, Sir,” Mr. Munson continued. “And I'm very grateful that you're keepin' an eye on him when I can't. But at some point, he may trust you with some very personal information about himself, and you better have his back when he does.”

He knows, Scott realized with a shock. He tried to give Mr. Munson a reassuring smile, but his heart was beating in his throat with what he was about to tell him.

“I was a sensitive kid, myself, Sir. I promise you Eddie is in good hands with me.”

Scott wondered whether Mr. Munson caught the message in those words while a long silence stretched out. Their gazes were locked: Mr. Munson's eyes were bright blue, completely different from Eddie's but just as expressive. His gaze softened while the seconds passed and underneath his graying beard, his mouth twitched.

“I was a sensitive kid, too,” he eventually said.

And Scott's jaw nearly dropped to the floor. This man, with his big calloused hands and his trucker's hat and his undeniably manly demeanor?

His feelings of astonishment must have been visible on his face, because Mr. Munson chortled softly.

“Didn't see that one coming, did ya?”

Scott laughed, too, making the last bit of residual tension between them disappear. “I'm sorry, Mr. Munson. I had no idea.”

“'S okay,” Mr. Munson said. “'s good to know that Eddie has someone lookin' out for him here. Um –” He scraped his throat. “I um...” He abruptly averted his gaze back to his lap again, where his fingers were nervously fumbling with the cap he was holding between his hands.

“I always make Eddie dinner,” he finally said. “'S one of the few things I can do for him, y'know. It'd probably be better for me if I took a quick nap 'tween my jobs, but it's the only time of the day we got together. I'm not much of a cook, but I try to get him to eat somethin' healthy and warm, and we talk about stuff, whatever it is he wants to talk about. So um... If you ever wanna join us – that is, if you don't mind comin' to the trailer park... We don't have much, but I'm sure we can fit another chair 'round the table. I think it could be good for Eddie.”

Scott could barely believe what was happening. To think that only a few minutes ago, he had been worried about this man having a temper or being neglectful towards his nephew...

Wayne Munson was shy and soft-spoken and he loved Eddie with a passion that sparked a fierce protectiveness. And after having Scott judge him based on the way he looked and a bunch of false assumptions, he showed him nothing but genuine goodness.

He felt his lips bend into a smile more authentic than he'd been able to give in a while.

“I'd love to join you sometime,” he told Mr. Munson. “For Eddie – but I also wouldn't mind getting to know you better,” he added in a sudden spur or braveness.

And he could swear that something suspiciously like a smile matching his own was hiding beneath Mr. Munson's beard.

[eddiesghxst]

do you or have you ever played gta 5? i’m on a kick from it. i never play video games (besides sims 4) but my brother is a heavy video game player, wants to be in the business programming and all that so he introduced me to it. but i have a huge crush on one of the characters who’s a little more controversial just because he’s crazy but he’s also such a loser. Trevor Philips. in fucking love.

Eddie and Trevor are complete idiot losers. however, i like to dig into how crazy Trevor is and how soft it’s canon that he gets for those he loves. I like to think that Eddie is the same way. Yes protective but maybe because he has never had a girl he loves this fiercely, he holds on to her like a porcelain doll. Anyone that looks in her way, anyone. any friend no matter how good has no fucking business looking in her way if it’s nothing but good.

there’s no way he can be cannoned as weak, he’ll get into a fist fight if it means someone made you even doubt yourself, he’ll come home with a broken nose and fuck your security back to the top where it belongs. he’ll walk a million miles carrying you if it meant you didn’t want to.

🫶 anon

god he's so whipped, this is true

ALSO i just wanna add, i was rewatching season 4 for the 50th time whilst writing and idk why i never paid attention and realized wayne has a thick ass southern accent and i'm blaming it on me being from texas and that being the norm for me😭

BUT THAT BEING SAID i like to imagine wayne passed a bit of his southern tendencies onto eddie

and one thing about southern people is they don’t fuck around when it comes to people they love okay and we can already see that with the way wayne was so protective over eddie

SO (bear with me) obviously wayne and eddie only had each other and were tight-knit in some manner, but when you come along ?? god, eddie is on ten

that man will a thousand percent call anyone out if they’re eyeing you for too long. he puts his hand in your back pocket when you’re walking together, or he makes you slip a finger through his belt loop. when you stop at the gas station and eddie gives you some money to get a snack, he intently watches through the window as he pumps the gas, just waiting for someone to get too close to you so he can walk in there and tell them to fuck off

and he knows you can take care of yourself, he knows you can fend off any annoying asshole that can’t take a hint, but he can’t help the knee jerk reaction he has when anyone tries to fuck with what’s his. so yeah, he’s protective (maybe too protective sometimes), but it’s all out of love and he looks cute when he’s disgruntled so it’s a win win.

and ofc wayne’s southern ass is protective over you too, it’s like you’ve got your own little grumpy guards🥰

also no i have not played GTA, should i look into it ??👀 i’m highkey thinking abt getting into gaming🤭 i like mortal kombat but i’ve only played the mobile app and i also fw COD bc….ik y’all seen ghost and könig and price and and and— god they’re all so fuckin fine bye

[therandomfandomme]

Eddie Munson in cowboy boots

[lovebugism]

smutty requests you say... maybe eddie x reader fooling around secretly, while wayne's home? so like a little exhibitionism kink?

i'm just now realizing i totally misread the prompt so pls forgive me anon, i'll happily write a part 2 to this if u want!! — the first time uncle wayne catches you and eddie in the act™ (established relationship, inspired by this universe, smut 18+ | 1.3k)

“Alright. I’m headed out,” Wayne announces in a gravelly drawl, huffing as he rises from his creaking recliner. His work boots sound heavy on the worn carpet as he trudges towards the front door, closer to a wretched and unavoidable graveyard shift. His old bones are weighed down by a preemptive dread and a homemade meal you cooked with him in mind.

Eddie feels bad for being so happy to see him leave.

“Have fun,” the boy lilts playfully from where he’s sprawled along the couch, smiling wide with his head tilted to his shoulder.

Wayne grumbles vaguely in response.

“Bye, Mr. Munson,” you grin more sincerely than the boy beside you.

The man flashes you a mere hint of a grin, which is a whole lot more than most people get these days. He pulls a worn baseball cap over his balding head and nods once in your direction. “Bye, sweetpea,” he responds in his usual gritty and melodic Southern cadence.

The rusted hinges of the screen door squeal open and shut behind him. A wintery breeze billows in, briefly piercing the heated trailer and biting at Eddie’s burning skin. 

You idle on the other side of the couch, with your eyes drawn to the sitcom playing in static colors ahead of you — unaware of your boy’s building desire and far too distant for his liking. Eddie marvels at your profile, unabashed and boyish, and waits for the perfect moment to strike.

He hears Wayne’s truck door close with a muffled thud. The ignition rattles for a moment, then roars when amber headlights shine suddenly through the sheer curtains. Eddie waits until he hears the tires crunch against the gravel drive before he pounces on you, like unsuspecting prey to a predator of unbridled longing.

You squeal when his mouth locks suddenly with your pulse, warm and wet on your unkissed skin. He wraps you in his arms like he intends to smother you against him. You swear you can feel his heart racing against your shoulder. His tongue darts along the most sensitive spot on your neck, and your head tips back with an airy laugh.

“What?” Eddie mumbles, muffled into your skin.

“Nothing,” you giggle. “Just thought you’d last longer than that.”

“Hm. Feel like I’ve heard that one before.”

“Shut up,” you gripe, but pull him impossibly closer just the same.

You bury your nose in his wild curls, inhaling the sweet scent of his conditioner and the subtle skunky smell of weed. He mouths at your neck with an intentional sloppiness that makes your eyes flutter.

Eddie grumbles a moan against your skin, which you feel in little tingles in the pit of your stomach. “You taste good,” the boy observes mindlessly into your pulse.

“I taste like sweat,” you scoff against his temple. “I still need to shower.”

“What’s the point? You’re just gonna get dirty again.”

Eddie pulls away with a soft smack. His lips are rosy and softly swollen as they curl into a grin. His chocolate eyes swim with mischief as yours narrow into a squint. “You’re such a boy,” you deadpan.

“Just love you,” the boy shrugs. “That’s all.”

You’re grateful when his lips finally meet yours. You’re only able to breathe when he’s kissing you, in a heavy exhale through your nose that fans along his cupid’s bow. He licks into your mouth tasting like a homecooked meal and nicotine and boy. Something foreign and nostalgic and tender. You melt into him accordingly. 

When he urges you to lay back against the couch, you let him. You cradle his face in your hands to keep him close as he props himself on his forearms, careful not to crush you despite his efforts to kiss the breath from your lungs. His weight is a comforting one anyway — body warm and lean and pleasantly heavy on top of yours.

You forget to take another breath until Eddie pulls away. You inhale deeply, lungs grateful for air, as the boy’s mouth treks down your jaw.

He leaves a trail of wet kisses down your neck and collarbone, spit cooling and drying again on your skin. Goosebumps pebble in their wake, while his hand slides down your stomach.

His fingertips creep into the waistline of your pajama pants, perhaps a fruitless distraction from the lovebite he sucks just below your jaw. It’s a burning sensation of his teeth, followed by a warmer, more pleasant one as his tongue smooths over the bite.

“What are you? A vampire?” you giggle, fingers twisting in his hair.

You feel his smile curl into your neck. “Maybe,” he quips.

“I have to go leave eventually. You know that, right? And my roommates will freak if they see a hickey.”

Eddie whines between his kisses. “No, you don’t,” he insists with an audible frown. “Why can’t you just stay here forever?”

“Even if I wanted to, Wayne would still see. And that would be equally as horrifying.”

“He won’t be back until morning,” Eddie argues, punctuated by his teeth scraping your pulse. “It’ll be faded by then. Probably.” He licks over the bite and pulls away, peering down at you with a mischievous leer. “Unless… You want me to stop?” he offers in a sarcastic lilt.

You squirm under his gaze. “No…” you answer sheepishly.

He grins. “Then stop complaining, sweet thing.”

“Eddie,” you scold when the boy ducks down again, continuing his assault on your delicate skin, though you make no further attempt to stop him.

His kisses grow wetter and warmer and more languid as his hand travels down down down. A breathy moan catches in your throat when his calloused palm cups your bare pussy.

The damp, velvet feeling of you makes Eddie’s eyes widen. He didn’t know you’d be naked down there. He might’ve been more careful about it if he had.

“Shit,” he huffs.

“Sorry,” you squeak, face swirled apologetically.

Eddie pulls away again, head spinning as he stares down at you with heavy eyes. “No— Don’t— Don’t apologize for that shit, are you kidding?” he stammers, then laughs at how sorrowful you look. Like this could ever be a bad thing. “It’s hot.”

You smile sheepishly. “I’m just running out of clean clothes. That’s why I had to do the laundry today.”

“Well, next time, I’m just gonna lock the door to the washer,” Eddie retorts playfully. “So then you have to walk around naked.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re such a boy,” you repeat, right before you drag him down by his shoulders to swallow him in another kiss.

You lick into his mouth only to find that his hand had never wavered. He cups you delicately there still, and creeps his middle finger between your satiny folds. 

Your hips buck on instinct. His palm bumps your clit. Your moans entwine in a kiss.

The screen door opens again with another grating screech. You and Eddie part instantly, swollen mouths smacking as your heads turn in sync.

Wayne stills in the doorway, weathered face swirled in horror. Neither of you move for several long moments — like, if you stay still, you’ll turn invisible somehow.

“Really?” Wayne huffs. “On the couch?”

Eddie’s wide eyes dart awkwardly. “What are you doing here?” he wonders breathlessly, still on top of you and still with his hand down your pants.

“Forgot my damn wallet.” Wayne keeps his gaze averted as he trudges to the tiny, square dining table by the window. He tucks the leather billfold into the pocket of his navy jumpsuit and promptly returns the way he came.

You and Eddie spare a wordless look of horror between you in the meanwhile.

“Do it in a bed next time, alright?” Wayne advises from the doorway with his back facing you. The rusted door creaks open and, just before it shuts behind him, you hear him shout. “And use protection!”

[revengeismygender]

I find it very touching that collectively everyone looked at Wayne Munson with his gruff voice and his blue collar job, his cigarettes and his conspiracy theories, his southern accent and his small town Indiana residence, and said this man is either a die-hard queer ally or queer himself. And I love that because we are everywhere. We have gruff small town uncles and we are gruff small town uncles. We should remember that.

[sophiethewitch1]

What We Want - Chpt. 8 - Jason Fucking Todd

In Which A Romantic Breaks The Universe

(Yandere!batboys x f!reader) 18+ MDNI!

SUMMARY

Another lonely birthday, another empty year. You miss your family. You're late for your bills and rent, and even then, you got robbed last Tuesday.

Still, you buy yourself a cupcake, because you need it. I mean, hey. What's dessert for if not to get over cheating boyfriends and dead relatives?

As you blow out the candle, watching the clock switch from 11:59 pm to midnight of the next day, you make a wish.

And because the world doesn't like to make much sense, it comes true. Your life is suddenly flipped on a dime, and you're stuck trying to catch up with it. Fantasy becomes reality. You're a Wayne now, apparently. Or you used to be. You're loved, you're rich, you're talented and powerful.

Well, sort of. Careful what you wish for, right?

(TRIGGER WARNINGS AND MASTERLIST HERE)

PREV - NEXT

Well, look on the bright side of things. You’re not crying right now. That’s nice. You’re not an intern anymore. That’s nice. You struggle to think of anything else. Oh yeah, you’re rich! That’s also nice. You’re not dead. Nice.

This is kind of pathetic. You just feel bummed after having to break up with George a second time. And getting smacked right in the face by him. Which you know, anybody would be, you think. You don’t think a single soul has ever known the George Lancaster Break-Up Special more than once. And you didn’t think anyone would be stupid enough to fall for that asshole more than once.

You couldn’t fake a brave face anymore, you just didn’t have the energy for it.

…And let’s not forget almost dying via Joker goon. Not even the man himself, just a random lackey. You think of how he literally disappeared in front of your eyes, and decide you are going to stop thinking. It’s doing you no good anyway.

Instead, you just start walking. Letting your feet and your intimate knowledge of Gotham’s streets, even in this area you don’t often frequent, guide you. You find yourself at the train station. With little consideration, you buy a ticket to the southern part of the city. The bad side of town, the docks, where your apartment used to be.

You feel like a little rat scurrying back into the sewers as you hop on the subway, tucking yourself in between people who don’t recognise you, probably because of your general dishevelment.

Shoulders knocking against strangers, you feel the most at home since this whole disaster started. You stare across the train car, watching a baby babble to its mother. It catches your eye, gives you a big toothless smile, and some snot dribbles into it’s mouth. The mother notices and cleans the baby up with a tissue. When she catches you staring, you give a very awkward but friendly smile, and she smiles back.

A tiny weight lifts off your shoulders. Surrounded by the chaos of Gotham, as the subway exits the tunnels and heads up onto the sky rails, you find yourself warm by the rays of sun through the clouds. The view is beautiful, as it always is. Usually, you’d be looking at your phone, too busy to enjoy the sights. But it really is beautiful.

It’s only when you hear the announcer calling out that you realise you did this for a reason, and dart out of your seat and through the narrowly closing doors. The metal closes behind you with a small hiss. The Docks station, for most people, would be one of the better Gotham train stations. Newly built, and with all the tourist money it was clean. Well, clean as it could get. You’d read some article about the bacteria the rats were carrying being not found anywhere else on earth, and you’d decided to stop reading articles.

Anyway, for you, even the shining marble of the station was a sad sight. Because you only ever came here on your very worst days.

This seemed like one of them.

The familiar streets flit past you, barely something you’re even cognisant of. This part of the city was mostly new, the concrete fresh under your feet instead of littered with potholes. Still, it wasn’t at the centre of the blast radius, so it hadn’t been totally demolished.

No, that was just up ahead. And like everything else in this weird new world, you immediately noticed something different. Where your family had died was… still there, for some reason.

With confusion, exhaustion, and no small bit of despair, you stop in the middle of the pathway outside the remnants of what used to be an old diner and was now just a pile of rocks. Some very charred rocks. Looking at the wreckage, you raise your brows. Its crumbling form is still under construction after all these years. The yellow caution tape is only a deterrence to you because you don’t want to end up on the gossip reels for a second time today. Looking around, you find yourself further confused. Lots of other parts of the pier had been redeveloped, but this piece of the puzzle still lay bare.

It didn’t, in your home, your world. It had been replaced with high-rise apartments, and since they were so close to the water, so pretty and new, you had no hope of affording them. It probably wouldn’t be very good for your mental health even if you could. Still, you’d taken many walks past the street. Enjoyed the little bit of dirty white concrete that had survived. You and your siblings had signed your names into it, and you’d stroked the sidewalk like the weirdo you were many times.

Like you did today. And today, for some reason, the rest of it was here. Untouched. A remnant of the disaster. As you run your thumb along the sharp edge of Julie’s J, you find yourself once again lost in your memories. They were like honey traps to you these days.

The mum-and-pops diner had been run by your uncle. It’d been in the family for three generations, and he was incorrigibly proud of it. You’d all had your birthday parties there, because it was free and you were poor. It wasn’t like your uncle would let you pay for the food anyway, it was just one of the few times Mum could stand the generosity. She didn’t like it when you had disappointing birthdays, and no matter how much you tried to fake your happiness, she could always see to your core. Eventually, you and your siblings all gave up on trying.

You were late. You were often late, but this time it was… it was the difference between life and death. If you’d been a few blocks further, a little bit earlier, you’d probably be dead too. Or at least have some serious hearing loss instead of just suffering mild tinnitus.

You had felt more than seen the destruction. The earth had rumbled, and a deafening roar had swept through the streets. You remember falling to your knees, the worry about being late morphing to worry for your best clothes to a true terror when you realised where the blast had come from.

When you realised your family was in the epicentre.

You sometimes wish you were on time that day. That you’d gotten to see them all, even if you went with them. It didn’t sound so bad, really. At least you wouldn’t be alone. Hmm, you should probably stop thinking like that. Or maybe go to a therapist about it.

Not that you could afford it. Oh, right. Rich now. That was really taking some getting used to.

You wonder if people who won the lottery felt the same way. Probably not, because the rest of the world reflected the changes the person felt. They’d have to go pick up the check, go to the bank, and if they let their family and friends know, deal with the consequences of that.

You’d just woken up rich. No time to adjust, your new life was here and it was demanding your attention very loudly. And soup-ly, unfortunately. After a few minutes of staring blankly at the rubble, you look towards your left, where you know the Memorial awaits you. It’s in the centre of the new shopping district, built on top of the bombed parts of Gotham. It sits right next to the water, the cold breeze a comfort that you’d turned to on more than one occasion.

You’d feel bad if you didn’t change your clothes. You told Grayson you would, and you already felt bad enough about... everything to do with him. You suppose he was your brother. Your ex-brother. Ex-step-brother. The ex-step-brother of a woman who you weren’t.

Really, he was just a stranger. It seemed he didn’t feel that way, though.

You start the walk towards the shopping district, and into the first clothes store you see. The prices on the tags would usually make you flinch, but well, it doesn’t matter anymore. Nothing seems to matter. Your survival is now guaranteed, might as well wear some clothes that feel nice on your skin.

You walk out of that store looking like you just robbed it. Even the clerk had given you a weird look but accepted the black card tucked in your phone without much complaint. It’s an improvement if a small one.

Once you’re done, like a moth to a flame, you drift towards the Memorial centre. You’re following all the steps you used to in the past, but somehow, it all feels a bit alien. The world looks a little different, a little uncomfortable. Your shoes are worn in, and yet they still feel too tight.

Uncanny valley. You feel unwelcomed here, unwanted. Like the very earth can tell that there’s something wrong in this scene, some intruder. You ignore the feeling as best you can.

The Memorial is just as unfamiliar as the diner was, maybe even more. You know that your mother was a Wayne before she died. You know that. But still seeing your family’s framed photos, right alongside Jason's is so shocking you nearly jump. It takes a moment of wide-eyed staring before you can manage to get past that. When you do, for some reason you still go back to your old habits. You walk by them, the bouquets and to where their names used to be in thin letters.

You count with your fingers, finding the fifty-second line.

A man’s name replaces the spot where your mother’s is. The little grooves the oil in your fingers had left behind were gone, and instead was sharp stone like when the monument was first erected. It cuts at your fingers. It no longer welcomes your touch.

James Whitaker. That’s the name of the man who took their spot.

You can already feel a rising obsession with the random dead man. If you were going to psycho-analyse yourself, you’d recognise that you didn’t feel that the images of the Waynes you’d created were no longer real, no longer safe to your escapist mindset. You’d realise, that this was all pretty unhealthy, and you really, really needed therapy.

Instead, you give the guy your condolences and start reading the other plinths. They seem largely the same. It’s not like you hadn’t read all of these towers of stone at one point or another, your eyes glazing over the many, many names. So much devastation, all in one moment.

And still, this was not even a tenth of all the lives the Joker had taken. You kinda wanna go take a kick at one of the Bat signals littered around the city. Maybe that’d make you less… broiling with incompetent rage.

Again, maybe you should just go to therapy. You should call Jeanine about that or something.

Eventually, you circle back to your family and Jason’s shrines. You know, back then you’d been jealous that Jason Todd had been so well mourned. You’d wished your family had gotten the same treatment.

Now, you… felt jealous again. Possessive, over their memory, their image. You didn’t really like that random strangers that never knew them… knew them. That Sam always got As in English and Art class but would sometimes skip math and would hide in the bathrooms to do so. That Chasey had struggled with going to school because of her anxiety but kept going because she had a friend going through the exact same thing. That Julie was the ace of her school’s soccer team, and that she’d almost gotten them to nationals even in the presence of all the super-rich schools in Gotham. That your Mum was a great cook but genuinely hated doing it, but for some reason, baking was her favourite thing even as she had never made a proper macaron.

They didn’t know them. They knew their faces and a facsimile of them, but they didn’t know them. It reminded you of the people at the orphanage. Nice, but not kind. They’d had their own lives, they didn’t want some bratty, demented teenager who was going down and planning on taking everyone with her.

You really couldn’t be happy, could you? Maybe you didn’t know what you wanted. What you want now. What you’d wanted for a while, actually.

Ugh. You close your eyes and let out a deep, soul-shaking sigh. It takes a moment for you to shore up the willpower to open them again. Come on, flower shop, finish your weird little ritual then you can go home and hide for the next millenia.

The walk there is the same as always, if a little more morose. It’s in a good spot, near the church just a block away and the memorial on its other side, as well as less sombre atmospheres down near the pier. Well, as little sombre as Gotham can manage.

You feel like you blink and you’re there. Too quickly, you find a rainbow of blooms in front of you, the scent of the blossoms washing over you. When you walk into the flower shop, the bell at the door rings the same as it always does. On autopilot, you walk over to the small, cheaper buds. Your hand clenches around the crinkly wrapping paper, a bundle of posies in your hand. You go to the counter with your prize in hand.

Larissa, the counter worker, smiles at you. Your breath hitches. It’s a working smile, not one of the real, toothy ones she used to give you.

“Oh wow, I thought all the posies had sold out. Lucky you!”

You think of something to say, but the moment passes and you don’t. She rings you up, tells you the price, and when you pay, asks sweetly if you want a receipt.

She doesn’t say your name. Doesn’t acknowledge how you come here every week and buy this same handful of flowers. She doesn’t ask about your job or the weather. She doesn’t cheerfully tell you about how her apprenticeship is going, or about the next sweet thing her partner has done. No, she just stares at you, growing more uncomfortable the longer it takes for you to answer.

She doesn’t even seem to recognise this other version of you. It feels like another string that tied you down to the earth has been snipped. You have an image in your head of a child losing a balloon, desperately grasping at the air. You’re going to float up into the atmosphere, and then you’re going to pop.

You can see the foil glinting in the sun’s light, so, so clearly.

You squeeze your eyes shut, “Yes, a receipt, please.”

Taking it blindly, you barely flutter your eyes open as you walk out of the shop. She didn’t know you, didn’t remember you. That doesn’t matter, you tell yourself. You hadn’t really known her. It doesn’t matter. There’s no real difference, it doesn’t matter.

It’s okay, it’s okay, it never really mattered. You keep telling yourself this as you walk back over to the memorial. As you lay your flowers down with the others, the little posies are dwarfed by the other donations. It didn’t matter. You didn’t know her. None of this matters. Their flowers don’t matter.

You don’t matter. You hit that errant thought with a mental fly swatter.

Exhausted, you sit down next to the monument. You used to be able to lay your head on the stone, able to feel your family in the warmth it had absorbed in the sun. Now you just sort of, awkwardly reached out to the small bit of uncovered plinth at the side. You have to stick your hand through a wreath to do so.

It’s not warm. You wonder if your family are sad. And then you wonder if you’re an idiot for attributing feelings to a literal rock.

After a while, you get up. Cross your arms. You stare at your family's portraits, eyes moving over their smiles. One by one. You recognise some of the photographs, those are your favourites. A smile cracks across your face when you see the picture of when Chasey lost her two front teeth. She still grins cheekily at the camera, uncaring for any changes to her appearance, as all kids shouldn’t.

Your shoulders fall just the slightest bit when you see the picture of Jason Todd. It’s one of his older pictures. Probably seventeen or something. He’d always been a lovely boy when he was younger. And he still was up till he died but you’d always thought you’d seen something start to change in him. That sparkle of innocence, dulled, just the slightest.

And then he’d died. And you’d wondered if maybe he’d felt it was coming.

You certainly hadn’t. It had been like a hurricane tearing through your life. You’d ended up on the other side completely abandoned, the only friend who’d bothered to keep seeing you being one who’d learnt to dodge train ticket costs like a damn ninja. And you’d had to decide whether you could keep doing this, whether you even wanted to.

You were an obsessive creature by nurture. It had been all you could do to hang onto the Waynes, pretend they would love and care for you even if they’d have never even noticed you in real life. You weren’t sure that was strength or simple human survival. Dying was scary. Of course, you were scared of dying.

Your whole family had died. So, you told yourself, that Jason Fucking Todd would be sad if you killed yourself, and somehow, you had made it all these years.

And now here you were, and the Waynes did notice you in real life. You were important to them. You didn’t want to be, but you were. And again, you have to ask yourself, what would Jason Todd ask of you? What would he want you to do now, in this impossible situation you’ve found yourself in?

You stare at the picture. Stare at the way the sun hits his dark hair and blue eyes. Stare very, very hard. Like he might crawl out and give you a detailed list of what to do. You’d really like a detailed list. Or any guidance at all. Maybe you could go hit up a seance or something.

Your head falls forward into your sun-warmed palms. This is so stupid. No answers are going to fall from the sky, you need to find them yourself. And you’re not going to find them here.

Someone walks up beside you to the old memorial, and you quickly tuck yourself back into an acceptable image. Fold in all the rough edges you can. A tall and well-built man, with a face mask, sunglasses and a trucker hat, he looks like he could be a celebrity or something. Someone important, much more than you.

And you weren’t, not technically, at least. The universe had done the equivalent of a shelving error, and now here you goddamn were.

He does an odd pose next to you, something military-esque, where he clasps his hands together and bows his head. With a quick flick of your eyes you confirm, yes, his feet are equal with his shoulders. It’s obvious that he’s paying his respects so you do your best not to judge him too hard.

And then he speaks to you.

“I’m sorry.”

You look up, startled and confused.

“For your loss,” the deep voice finishes, jerking his head toward the pictures in front of the two of you.

“Wha- oh uh, um,” you blink and then realise that this person has recognised you, which would make sense since you are literally in one of the photos in front of you, and manage to pull your fading conscious mind back together for a moment more.

“Thank you, uh-” you stare at him a moment longer, “You too?”

Almost worse than that time you told the barista who gave you your coffee you hoped she enjoyed hers too, but not quite. Well, you know, he’d probably lost someone here too. You don’t know why he’d be here otherwise unless he wanted an autograph or something. The thought almost makes you laugh.

He snorts at your words. You don’t know what to make of that.

He looks back down at the pictures and flowers. You think he does, at least, from the slight shifting of his head. He’s kind of mysterious. Pair that with the deep voice, the muscular and tall physique, and you’re an odd mix of attracted and socially anxious. Not that you’re not always socially anxious, but this guy feels… strong. Dumb again, you can see his biceps from here but…

You just can’t quite shake it off. Strong. Strong.

“They didn’t deserve it, none of them did,” he speaks again, and you wonder what the fuck he’s going on about at all.

You admit, you sound a little bitter when you mutter, “Well, that’s obvious.”

He lets out a bark of laughter, and you see his eyes flash to you from under his sunglasses. A shade of blue. There’s another odd pause, and then he turns to you. You don’t know why he’s looking at you. He crosses his arms, and seems to size you up.

“What are you doing here?” he asks you like he knows you.

Your brow furrows. Okay, kind of losing any hotness points here. Bothering someone who was grieving could’ve been seen as rude from the very start, but you’d just thought he was weird. Now, you thought he was weird and rude.

“…Paying my respects. Obviously,” you gesture downwards, “My mother, my siblings, and…”

Well, how would you describe the relationship between you and Jason Todd now? He was still just a stranger to you and-

“With who, that guy?”

Now, it isn’t often that you’re stunned into silence, but at the moment you can’t find it in you to do anything but stare and gape. Frankly, you’re astonished! You’ve never met anyone who spoke so rudely of the dead, and well, he couldn’t have picked a worse person to do it in front of.

“Excuse me?” your voice can’t seem to convey even half of your offence, even as you sound like you’re about ready to bite a second person for today. The man pauses like you’ve surprised him, which- what the fuck is going on? Why do you feel like an alien crash-landed on Earth these days?

“No, I just meant-” he huffs, shakes his head, and continues, his voice now offended too, “What the fuck am I saying? Yes, I did mean that. That little twerp was a naive idiot who was manipulated by the people he believed in most.”

You stare, absolutely speechless, as the stranger goes on a damn-fucking-near crazed rant about one of the people most important to you. Never met? Sure. Dead as hell? Absolutely. But still, he was one of your lifelines. Your candlelight in the dark, guiding your way even when you felt completely lost. And now he’s calling him a naive idiot? You can practically feel the steam coming out of your ears.

“He changed nothing, made no difference in the end-”

“Nothing?!” you practically shriek, finally able to find your voice just to use it to shout, “He changed… so much! He donated millions of dollars, did heaps of charity work, was practically a treasure to our city… He made multiple homeless shelters, an orphanage, helped rehabilitate criminals and countless other things.”

Your fists are clenched tight enough that they shake. You hide them behind your back, but you still feel like he can probably see them. Your emotions are simmering too close to the surface, bubbling over and onto the floor. About to burn his sneakers to ash.

“You seem like you care a lot,” he says, sounding reserved.

“Of course, I care.”

“…It’s just, you didn’t seem the type, on the TV,” he keeps talking, poking at you for some god-awful reason, and you bark out a harsh laugh.

“Maybe people need to stop making so many fucking assumptions, then? It certainly hasn’t gotten you anywhere,” you throw your hands up, damn sick of all the constant fucking surveillance you’re under. You can see why this version of you lost her mind. You’re near about to as well.

He stares at you for a moment longer, and you start feeling too uncomfortable. It’s a stupid and useless protectiveness that has you staying. Like he’ll somehow try and harm the shrine to your people. It’s happened before, Joker fanboys defacing it and such. This guy could be one of those bastards.

And yet… somehow you feel…

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he finally says.

“Good, you do that.”

“But in the end, nothing’s really changed. Joker’s still out and about, as you well know.”

You physically flinch like you’ve been slapped. For a good minute there, all you can do is stare at him in disbelief. You raise one shaking fist, and lift one trembling finger, pointing. The man looks in the direction you’ve pointed, and when he doesn’t see anything, turns back to you. His sunglasses reflect the grey afternoon sun.

“Go,” you order, voice shaking just like the rest of you.

He just keeps staring at you. You wish he’d take off those dumb fucking glasses, so you could see this asshole’s face. Etch it into your mind. He doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything, doesn’t take any action. He simply waits for you to… Well, you don’t know what you’ll do. You haven’t known what you’d do since you left Dick behind two hours ago.

“You need to go,” you say again, and again, he doesn’t fucking move, “You… there’s… you have no right.”

You can hear the buzz of the city around you, the wind rushing by. His clothes rustle in the wind. Your voice sounds too loud in your ears, but he won’t just… he won’t leave. You don’t want this stranger here, watching you. Judging you. It’s all…

“Jason didn’t do anything wrong,” you say, and you think to yourself, desperately, ‘I didn’t do anything wrong.’

There’s a slight shift in the stranger’s posture. His shoulders tensed.

You think you’ve offended him.

“The Joker… That’s nobody's fault but the government for not just sucking it up and giving him the death penalty, or Batman’s for not doing it himself a long time ago. They’re all fucking useless, but they’re the ones who are supposed to be dealing with this!” you continue, your words growing more heated. It’s only the already looming threat of an assault case that keeps you from shoving the guy. Not like you’d be able to move him an inch, of course, he was huge.

You’re sure it would feel good, though.

“It was never some random teenager's responsibility, and it wasn't mine either,” you say, but find yourself pausing for a moment when you hear the end of your sentence. It doesn’t matter. It’s not like it wasn’t obvious anyway.

You’d tied yourself and Jason up together in your head. To you, you were both two sides of the same coin. One foot in the grave. You’ve got one foot in the grave…

“Jason Todd was a good person, and he made the world a better place.”

You look down at the portrait of the boy, his toothy smile twisting at your heart. None of this was fair. None of this had ever been fair. Why was this guy acting like anybody here had ever been able to do anything about it? Like Jason should’ve been smarter, and avoided a fucking bomb blast?

It was stupid. This was stupid, and you were over it. You were tired.

“And I miss him.”

It’s quiet after you say that.

“I don’t know how you can think it’s fair to act like his death was pointless when… of course it was, all of this was pointless,” you say, throwing your hands wide and gesturing to the entire memorial. “This was a tragedy, but Jason was a victim. And I’m sick of people like you who think they can decide whether someone else’s life was lived right. It’s not your damn right.”

“Now… fuck off!” you announce, and to your shock, he does. He fucks right off. The man gives you one last lingering look, and then turns and leaves without another word. Not like you needed them.

You huff out a shocked breath, and then turn back to the memorial.

The framed faces of your loved ones stare back at you, and for all you know it’s stupid, you can’t help but feel embarrassed for the display. You know your mother would’ve scolded you for your language, at least.

“Sorry,” you say, and you’re unfortunately reminded of that irritating man again. Likely that won’t be the first time he pops up again in your head. He seemed well, insane. Which wasn’t that odd in Gotham but… god, you just couldn’t seem to let it go.

It pissed you off to high heaven. His rudeness was something you’d usually be able to shrug off, especially from some random stranger, but, but, but-! Argh, damn it all. And it wasn’t like that was the first time you had had that sort of conversation, but it was certainly the first time someone had been so bold as to bring it up in front of your dead mother’s smiling face.

Earlier today had snuffed out the fire in you, but that encounter had been the spark to reignite it. More than that, actually. It had made you so damn pissed, made your blood boil in a way you just couldn’t ignore, to the point that you wanted to prove him wrong.

Jason Todd had mattered and had made a difference and change in Gotham. He had made a change in you. You put your hands on your hips, stare down at the flowers, and make a decision.

You’re going to fix your goddamn life. For Jason Fucking Todd.

Your body feels like shit, your brain feels like it’s stuffed with cotton wool, and yet this is the greatest opportunity you’ve ever been given. You have a chance to save yourself, and save your friends, and fix all the tiny little problems in Gotham that you’ve suffered through since childhood. Surely just throwing enough money at all your problems would fix some of them.

You were rich. If you couldn’t fix your life with millions of dollars available, then you had no chance.

And yeah, you don’t know what you’re doing. You know you can’t really change what happened. Back then or even just a few days ago. But you hate that. You hate it so much. You hate how weak you are in the face of loss. How both then and now, there’s nothing you can really do. And maybe if just out of spite, towards that asshat, Batman, Joker and everyone else, you want to make a change.

You want to be able to do something about it. You want it, so fucking bad.

First order of business?

…You want more flowers.

MASTERLIST - NEXT

[nova2kss]

Influencer island

“GOOD MORNINGGG AMERICAAAAA”

“I’m your host Yanna Bailey to Influncer Island. It’s new, it’s hot, it’s dramatic, and it’s your new obsession!”

“We’re bringing all of your fav influencers and Internet personalities across the country for a steamy hot adventure”

“You all know them”

“And you all love them”

“I have hand picked these hotties myself…some ofc more known than others none the less they are all wild and ready to come in swinging!”

“Before I introduce you to the men that will participate in influencer island I think it’s fair that I give you a run down of what this show will look like!”

“These 16 hotties will come in ready to pick some partners and participate in challenges”

“Each pair will receive points based off of where they place on the board and based off votes from the viewers aka you guys”

“At the end of each episode there will be a poll placed for voting”

“You guys will be able too vote who should stay, go, and receive a punishment, or a hot date”

“With that being said let’s introduce the men of INFLUENCER ISLAND.

“Coming in first we have the famous polo boy himself”

“Armin Arlert”!

“He’s best known on instagram for being the cute polo soft boy model as stated in his bio, the internet has named him the number 1 golden retriever baby and I couldn’t agree more!”

“Armin is such a sweet heart and I know he can’t wait to be here….but with him being a sweetie pie…will he be able to hang and get wild with the rest of the contestants?”

“Especially this chipped tooth, beer drinking, horse riding, dirty country boy gone viral”

“Reiner Braun”!!

“This big beefy boy best known on that clock app has gone viral for bringing his southern ways onto the app, Reiner caught the attention of many wild men and sexy ladies and was requested by the merrier”

“Currently living in Mississippi but we all know he’s a real south Floridian gator wrestling boy. He’s the perfect match for this cast”

“Next up we got this black cat clothing owner bertoldt hoover!!”

“Best known for his brand flontae clothing and getting hella wild on them boats, don’t let the pretty eyes fool you this city boy knows how to party”

“Kristen made that cast Okay!”

“Y’all know him cause he definitely produced your favorite songs”

“He’s worked with Nicki Minaj, lil Wayne, drake, lil durk, Kanye west, and so many more”

“However when he’s not in that Stu making beats he’s out hosting the biggest parties and filming it all letting us know he was a perfect candidate for this cast!”

“This hot head was requested by the executive producer herself, we’ve seen him whoop ass in that underground ring, we’ve seen him getting wild in the streets, we’ve seen him catchin ass on twt and we wanna see MOREEE!!”

“Everyone love porco”

“But I don’t think as much as y’all love this sexy stoner”

“Constance springer the man that you are”

“He’s 6’0 tatted like a chipotle bag and he is the life of the party! This skater boy most known on TikTok and YouTube is definitely  influential and definitely deserves his spot here

“As stated himself he is a fine chocolate sexy black man”

“Get this! He’s also a brand ambassador for flontae clothing who would’ve known”

“Onyankapon, such a pretty name for a pretty boy.”

“We don’t know how wild ony gets and that’s why he was picked cause the whole world wants to see, he’s seen as someone who doesn’t do much. But I’m willing to bet as soon as he steps foot on this sand that will change.”

“And last but certainly not least”.

“Eren Yeager.”

“Or jaeger”

“Regardless this man dose not need an intro at all, you’ve seen him right with Beyoncé on her ivy park campaign”

“You’ve seen him on the front page of Louis Vuitton”

“You all love him and rightfully so he is something else sporting that black motorcycle when he’s not doing them photo shoots”

“You see these men? These are who are gonna be across your screens in the next few weeks!! Now just imagine the women.”

“On the next preview we will be introducing your favorite wild ladies! It’s your host Yanna Bailey signing out!”

How do you guys feel?😁

(Not proofread)

[bruciemilf]

About DILF!Clark with Battinson: he takes him to the farm when Bruce has to recover after a bad fight in Gotham that Clark couldn't help with without exposing his identity.

He managed to get Bruce out post fight, and the heat was high and Bruce didnt want to risk Alfred and his new charge at the Mansion, so they managed to get to Kansas on a stiff agreement because the trust wasn't there yet.

Cue Bruce getting some southern healing remedies of home made meals, woven blankets and animal cuddling.

Clark talking to his mom about not being sure about leaving Gotham all for Bruce to take on his shoulders being so "young" and she reminds him he was there at that stage too once. She suggests being a helping hand, and who knew, they may even become friends.

Clark and Bruce bonding on a porch, drinking iced tea, and soaking up sunsets.

(Bruce going back to Gotham when physically able to take down the big bad, and Clark flying in to assist. )

Thinking about Waynes with southern roots.

You wouldn’t figure it out, — Ma and Pa certainly didn’t;

Bruce doesn’t have the tone or vocal accent to indicate any semblance to theirs. His is more tough, even with that snow voice of his, more tight.

But the way he instinctively grabbed white lily flour instead of all purpose for Pa’s buttermilk biscuits, making sweet tea automatically, almost by nature, — Martha is frankly offended his recipe is better than hers, and not sitting down before the hosts do, it’s plenty obvious.

Personally, such a big fan of Clark taking Bruce around town. He thinks there’s many first date attraction spots his Gothamite would like.

Is this a gateway to showing Bruce he’s human even if he isn’t normal? Maybe, possibly, conceivably. Bruce doesn’t need to be convinced— he’s seen plenty of monsters before, and Clark doesn’t look like any of them.

Except Bruce doesn’t realize it’s a date. At all.

“That boy’s cornbread ain’t done in the middle or something.”

“Pa!” Clark frowned. “I agree. But hey!”

[jennasslut33]

Keep quiet..

Warnings: 18+, Lorraine x Fem!reader, smut, mommy kink, praise, fingering, pussy slapping, car sex. MDNI!!!

It was a normal day as usual for you, Lorraine, Maxine, R.J, Wayne, Bobby-Lynne and Jackson.

You we're all finishing up one of the scenes from the movie that you've all been filming, for everyone it was pretty normal for them, but you. You seemed pretty uncomfortable with the whole situation, so did Lorraine.. When you were all filming, you and lorraine looked at each other, both of you looking pretty disgusted and uncomfortable, but you thanked the lord that it ended. You had one of the mics that Lorraine holds up, Lorraine had a mic as well, R.J has the camera and Bobby-Lynne as always is smoking a cigarette as well as Jackson. Maxine is walking with Wayne and you're all bored so, Maxine decides to break the awkward silence, "did you all wanna maybe.. go into town?" Wayne answers, "sure Maxine, does anyone else wan' come along?" he asks, looking around the group of people. "uhm.. i-i'll come..?" you say nervously, because of the awkward scene you just had to watch and shoot, you're just thanking the lord that it wasn't you who was riding Jackson's cock and that it was Bobby-Lynne, as always. "alright, what about you two?" Maxine asked Lorraine and R.J. You look back at them, however, you cant help but admire Lorraine, how her dark wavy hair goes in front of her shoulders, her deep, dark brown eyes, the freckles that run along her cheeks and nose, her perfectly sharp jawline, her perfectly plump maroon coloured lips, you cant help but imagine what it'd be like to kiss them. You have always despised R.J, and how he doesn't show Lorraine enough attention, love, affection, etc. You wish that you could give her all of the love, affection and attention she needs. Lorraine has always been a bit quiet, she looks so innocent. But you snap out of that thought when R.J speaks. "Yeah, we'll come." Lorraine speaks up right after him. "yeah, its pretty boring with nothin' to do on this farm anyway." You swear you can feel yourself getting weak at the knees at her sweet, southern accent, you go crazy for it every time she speaks, which is very rarely. "Y/N, you coming?" Bobby-Lynne asks. "o-oh.. uhm.. yeah.. yeah I'm coming." you say as you walk to the back of the van and get in it. Wayne and Maxine in the front seats, Wayne in the drivers seat, Maxine in the passenger seat. Bobby-Lynne and Jackson are right up against the Driver and Passenger seats, talking to Wayne and Maxine. Lorraine and R.J sitting next to each other on the left side of the van together. Then there's just.. you. you sit on the right side of the van in the back corner closest to the back doors of the van, giving R.J dirty looks as he's being oblivious to anything around him, since he's looking back at the footage from the dirty scene you all just had to film. You look over at Lorraine, you see how she looks a bit.. upset, bored and just looks a bit pissed at the same time. If it was because of R.J, you don't blame her. He never pays attention to her, he's always been so fixated on this dumb movie that both, you and Lorraine don't even want to be apart of. You then get the courage to speak up, your voice is a bit quiet, with your southern accent, you speak up to Lorraine "hey.. uhm.. L-Lorraine, i just wanted to ask, are you alright..?" She looks at her and her facial expression changes completely, she smiles softly at you, she sits up and looks you right in the eyes. "Yeah, I'm alright, why do you ask?" ugh.. that face.. the smile.. the eyes.. the voice.. It drives you absolutely insane every time you hear it. You feel butterflies in your stomach when she smiles at you, her deep, dark brown eyes looking into yours. and you finally speak up after snapping yourself back to reality. "oh i was uh.. just.. just wonderin' you.. uhm.. you didn't seem alright, that's all." you say in a quiet tone. She speaks again as she smiles at her sweetly, "oh, no, I'm alright Y/N, thats just my face i guess." she chuckles and R.J of course has to ruin the mood. "Lorraine, can you shut up for two seconds? god, im trying to focus and i cant with you yappin' in the back."

Lorraine looked at R.J. She looked down and said sheepishly “o-oh.. I’m.. im sorry, R.J—“ R.J put his hand in front of her face, cutting her off “I said shut your damn trap. God, you don’t know how or when to listen do you?”

You were seething quietly. You hated the way he spoke to her, your fists subconsciously clenching that your knuckles turned white. you were about to say something until Bobby-Lynne exclaimed “oh! There’s a bar up here, let’s go!” ugh, great. if they drank, you’d be the one to drive, it happened every time.

“do y’all wanna go have a drink?” Wayne asks, his eyes looking at everyone in the back of the van. “We’ve been filming all dang day. We deserve a drink or two, Wayne.” Bobby-Lynne says, sounding a bit irritated. “Alright, Bobby-Lynne, we’ll go.” Wayne said. “I’m up for a drink.” Maxine said, lifting her head from the magazine she was looking at. “Yeah, me too. All this work, I need a drink as well.” Jackson says, taking a drag of his joint.

R.J had agreed as well. You weren’t a big drinker, you’d only drink every now and then. But it was very rarely you drank. Bobby-Lynne and Maxine looked back at you and Lorraine. “Y’all gonna come have a drink?” Maxine asks, her eyes darting between you and Lorraine. “o-oh uhm.. n-no.. no thank you.. im alright..” you say shyly, and you fiddled with the ring you had on your index finger. “Alright, what about you? you comin’?” Bobby-Lynne asked Lorraine, who looked up from her hands and she cleared her throat.

“oh, uhm.. no, im alright. Are.. Y/N and I allowed to stay in the van while y’all are gone?” she asked, looking at Wayne. “uhh..” he looked at Maxine and then back at Lorraine through the review mirror. He sighs “yeah, fine. whatever, go through that sweet footage we’ve got while you’re both here.”

As much as Lorraine didn’t want to, she wouldn’t have much of a choice. She wasn’t gonna do it anyway. she just nodded in response, and you hung up blankets on the windows, because the sun was way too hot. There were only windows in the front of the van, and on the back doors of the van.

. . .

You finally stopped out the front of a bar, because the one that Bobby-Lynne pointed out was closed due to being short on staff. everyone got out, except for you and Lorraine. All windows were covered by the blankets you put up, you and Lorraine were sitting quietly in the back of the van, you were just laying down, Lorraine was just sitting there as she looked at her hands.

It was quiet for a bit. You were starting to get a bit hot, so you removed your jacket. You were wearing a low cut shirt with dark grey pants. The shirt had half of your tits spilling out of it. You felt like that if you had taken your jacket off with everyone else in the car, you’d be awkward. You laid back down across the van, your eyes closed that you didn’t even notice Lorraine staring at you, biting her bottom lip slightly.

“Nice shirt..” Lorraine said, her dark brown eyes not leaving you for a second. Your eyes opened and you looked at her “oh, thanks.” You said a bit shyly, a faint blush on your cheeks as you answered. She nodded, and as you were laying there, you felt a hand on your abdomen.. your eyes shot open and you looked at Lorraine.

“d-do you.. do you need anything..?” you asked, a bit flustered feeling her long, slender fingers slowly curling and uncurling on the skin of your abdomen as she looked at you. “hm.. no, just looking.” she said softly, her deep dark brown eyes looking your body up and down. “Just looking?? then why is your hand on my stomach?” you asked, looking a bit confused and flustered.

There was silence for a while, then you heard Lorraine breathe in, about to speak. “How good are you at staying quiet?” your eyes widen, what kind of question was that? and why did it ever even come to her mind? you spoke up quietly. “u-uhm.. i-im.. im not sure.. w-why do you ask..?” Lorraine smirked. she traveled her hand up your stomach, across your beasts and then cupped the side of your face in her hand. “You wanna test that out, sweetheart?” she said, almost purring. you sat up, but she pushed you back down and held your thighs.

“L-Lorrraine.. what’re you doing..?!” you exclaimed in a whisper. Lorraine pulled you closer to her by your thighs, prying them open. “What does it look like im doing? we’re gonna see how quiet you can be for me, baby.” She purred, her fingers trying to undo the button on your pants.

“I- I didn’t.. I didn’t think you were doing this kind of thing..” you say nervously, Lorraine’s hands now slowly pulling your pants down, and off of your body, leaving you in black lace panties and that white low cut shirt. You whined pathetically as you felt her fingers rubbing against your clothed clit, and she looked at you.

“Keep quiet for me, baby..”

she whispered. Moving her fingers faster against you. A soft gasp left your lips when you felt her push your panties to the side, her fingers teasing at your dripping pussy. “hm.. so wet for me, aren’t you?” She said, in almost a purr. She then settled between your thighs, her face so close to your aching cunt. Lorraine then tore your panties off of your body, and tossed them aside. She then held your thighs tight against her shoulders, and she buried her face between your thighs, her tongue lapping around your dripping hole as she sucked on your clit.

“L-Lorraine.. fuck.. mmh..” you moaned. Lorraine made you look at her while she ate you out. You couldn’t handle eye contact so, you looked away. She slapped your pussy, making you look at her again after you whined.

Lorraine the bought two fingers up to your entrance, teasing at it. The tips of her fingers circling around your sopping, aching cunt.

“P-Please..” you whine, looking at her as she smirked. “please what, honey? use your words.” she said teasingly, her fingers still continuing to tease at your aching hole. “please.. mommy.. fingers.. mmh..” you whine, your chest rising and falling rapidly as you breathe heavily.

“Good girl..” with that, Lorraine slammed two fingers into you, curling them as she hits that soft spongy spot inside of you, making you squeal and she went at a brutal pace, pumping her fingers in and out of your dripping cunt.

“don’t stop..” you moan, looking down at her as she sucked on your clit and kept her fingers pumping. You two were still in the back of the van, parked next to a street, in front of a bar, where the others were.

“Are you gonna cum for me, baby?” Lorraine asks, taking her mouth off of your clit for a moment. her fingers didn’t stop, you clenched around Lorraine’s fingers, so close to your orgasm as she kept going. “please.. fuck— mommy.. can I cum?? please.. please let me cum..” you begged, whimpering as you were on the brink of your orgasm.

“not until I say so. hold it, you can do it.” Lorraine says in almost a commanding tone, making you whine desperately. You were needy, extremely desperate for a release. “please.. p-please— mommy, I can’t..” you say through moans and whines.

Lorraine chuckled and took her mouth off of your clit again. “yes, you can. Hold it for mommy, understand?” “If you cum and I haven’t said you could, you won’t be able to cum at all.” she said her voice almost an order, like she was ordering you not to cum. All you could do was give a pathetic whimper. “answer me, do you understand?” “Say something, Y/N. Or I’ll leave you edged.” She hissed, trying to get you to answer her. All you could do was let out small words. “I— mmh.. ye-yes..” you said through heavy breaths and soft moans. “Good girl.” Lorraine said, latching her mouth back onto your clit, her hand travelling up under your shirt, her fingers teasing your nipples as she had her hand underneath your shirt and bra.

After a good 9 minutes, tears of overwhelming pleasure streamed down your face, your legs shaking, keeping yourself quiet because you didn’t want people walking past the van to know what was going on. Lorraine saw how you were shaking, nothing but a trembling mess under her touch.

“do you wanna cum, pretty?” Lorraine asked, almost as if she was being sarcastic about it. A moaned out sob left your lips as you spluttered out words “ye-yes.. please..” you beg, you’re so done, and you need that sweet feeling of relief leave you. “Cum for me, baby. Cum on my tongue.” She said as she withdrew her fingers from your pussy, making you whine, feeling empty. She then kept her mouth on you, licking and sucking at your throbbing clit, and aching hole.

Once she said you could cum, you didn’t hesitate. Your back arching off the van seats, your thighs squeezing Lorraine’s head to tight her ears started ringing, your hands gripping the bedsheets that were laid out across the van seats so tight that your knuckles turned white as you screamed with pure pleasure and relief. Lorraine cleaned up every drop of your sweet sweet nectar, licked you clean. She then licked her fingers and smirked at you.

“You did so good for me, baby. you were such a needy slut, weren’t you?” she said, her hand around your throat as you nodded “ye-yes.. mommy..” you said through pants as your eyes were hooded. “Good girl. You’re a slut, my slut. Do you understand me?” she said in a possessive tone. You nodded your head in response and she got you dressed just in time. The moment she pulled you onto her lap, her arms around your waist, your face buried into her neck, and your thighs bracketing hers. Everyone had come back to the van.

“What’s up with, Y/N?” Jackson asks as he jumps in the back of the van. “Nothin�� she’s just sleepin’” Lorraine says as if she didn’t just fuck you in the back of the van.

She then whispered in your ear.

“Just wait till later tonight..”

[stevebabey]

this is pure stupid hell crack that took more time than it should’ve to finish BUT i’m ready 2 release it from my drafts <3 this is actually technically written partially w @corrodedcoughin in mind bcos i think u will mighty enjoy it! for cockney eddie!

It comes with the territory, the accents.

Drama kid or dungeon-master, either one could be credited with contributing heavily to his affinity for all of Eddie’s little voices.

There was the deep, low raspy one reserved for trolls in campaigns — and a nasally high one he used for goblins to pair. Wise wizards giving out crucial advice sometimes had a strong Scottish drawl to their words. And Dwarfs? Always English.

So, yeah, Eddie has a couple different accents in his different repertoire. Pulls them out as he needs — a regal tone when referring to Hawkin’s very own royalty or a buried Southern twang used when he’s in trouble with Wayne. The most common is a shoddy Cockney accent for when any conversation dips too far towards awkward or boring.

It's why it's not so surprising anymore when they just... slip out sometimes.

He's learned more now, when specifically not to do it (Mrs. Donnell had not found his plea for a re-sit, in a heavy Irish accent, endearing in the slightest). But with friends who know Eddie, they know the accents come along too.

Steve fucking loves them.

The first time one had taken over his voice, some New Yorker twang to carry a joke, Steve had laughed so hard he’d snorted. And god, had Eddie lit up at the noise— loved knowing that, deep down Steve Harrington had a delicious wonderful ugly laugh that he only showed to people he trusted.

Basically, it’s hardly news to Steve then, all of Eddie’s little voices.

But well, even Eddie didn’t expect… okay, the truth is he never expected to be in this situation at all.

It’s a Wednesday evening when it happens. Steve is over round the trailer like he is every Wednesday, keeping Eddie company while Wayne is out on the double night shift.

It originally had started out as ensuring wounds were checked and dressed properly — considering half of them had scaled up his back, where Eddie couldn’t reach — for the both of them. Then, when technically Eddie could manage the worst of his words, Steve was still coming around. Dustin’s insistence, he’d said.

Then it was… because Eddie asked Steve to come around, to stay a little longer.

So, Steve Harrington is in his kitchen and it’s a Wednesday ritual that they have together and that’s not even the weird part of the evening.

(And somehow, neither is the fact that Steve is, as of a few months ago, his boyfriend.)

Steve’s cooking. Something simmers low on the scarlet glowing hob, bubbling quietly and releasing aromas of spices that percolate into the Autumn evening air.

Eddie feels his stomach growl in its own twist of hunger as he follows his nose. With one hand still scrubbing a towel against his wet hair, he ambles down the hall, fresh out the shower, ready for love — be it the form of food or, he thinks giddily, kisses.

Steve’s not watching the food as Eddie enters, his eyes fixed somewhere across the room. There’s a crease between his eyebrows, an indication of his deep thought.

Eddie grins, approaching without any attempt of being sneaky, (Steve’s as good as comatose when he’s distracted as he’d found) and jabs his boyfriend’s calf with his toe.

“Thinking mighty hard there, Stevie. That’s dangerous.”

Steve jolts, snapping out of his thoughts. He straightens up automatically, then seems to recall the company he’s keeping, and relaxes back down.

He scowls affectionately at Eddie’s barefoot, still jabbing into his leg, and reaches out to flick it with his finger.

“Dickhead.”

Eddie’s faster. He dances away and laughs at the instinctual pout that forms on Steve’s lips.

“What ponders thy mind, hm?” Eddie drawls, a lilt of a Regency style accent in his voice. He sinks into one of the kitchen chairs and drops his task. The towel hangs over his neck, his damp curls resting against it.

Steve seems to jolt again at that, his shoulders rising for a moment. He spins, picking up the wooden spoon beside the stove to swirl the contents of their dinner around. Eddie admires him, broad shoulders and long back, ripe for his taking. Silently, he sighs dreamily on the inside.

“Just… what movie we’re gonna watch tonight.” Steve says unconvincingly. “I’m not doing another re-watch of the Fly.” He adds lamely, an attempt at his usual bitch.

Eddie lets him have it. With one final squeeze of the towel, trying to wring out all the droplets in his hair, Eddie abandons it on the chair as he stands. He waltzes forward, into Steve’s space, and hooks his chin over the other's shoulder.

“You know, that’s what you said last time.”

Steve side-eyes him, his eyes narrowing into a minuscule glare; bitch personified. Eddie grins. Then bats his eyelashes.

It makes Steve laugh, shrugging Eddie’s weight off politely as he gives their dinner another stir. There’s still this tenseness to his frame. Though, maybe it's one Eddie can only notice because he’s paying such close attention.

“Alrightttttt,” He pretends to relent dramatically, his hands coming up to give Steve’s shoulders a quick squeeze. “I’ll let you pick the movie tonight.”

He drops his hands back to his sides, smarmy grin already plastered on as Steve turns to face him, the wooden spoon placed down on the bench.

“Oh, you’ll let me, will you?” He gives this incredulous look, even if there is this playfulness toying at the corners at his lips.

“Uh huh,” Eddie affirms with a severe nod, then begins counting on his fingers as he lists off. “No badgering, wailing, complaining, of any sorts I—“

Suddenly, Steve’s reaching out, his deft hands reaching out to snag the waistband of Eddie’s pyjama pants. It supposed to be a smooth move he’s used countless times before; fingers looped through belt loops to pull a girl in for a kiss. It usually works like a charm.

Except, there’s no belt loops— and when Steve tucks his fingers beneath the waistband and tugs him forward, Eddie shrieks.

“Fucking christ, Steve!” He bats Steve’s hands back without thinking. Steve holds them up defensively.

“Sorry! I was just—”

“What are you doing sticking your hands in my pants?!”

“It was a move!” Steve insists, voice a little whiney. “God, you’re dramatic- I was trying to pull you closer, numb-nuts.”

“Oooh,” Eddie switches up in an instant, hands shooting out to grab Steve’s own. He pulls them forward and settles them on his own waist, shuffling in closer like he hadn’t just shrieked a minute earlier. “Continue.”

Steve chuckles, delight peeking through on his face. His hands, large and slender, curl around the skin of Eddie’s waist and Christ, he’s still not used to that. Eddie’s too focused on repressing his shiver to see the shadow of nervousness cross Steve’s face.

“I was actually thinkin’ about,” Steve starts lowly, eyes skirting off Eddie’s face, over his shoulder. His fingers tighten their grip. “How—”

He sucks in a breath, like drawing in courage, and meets Eddie’s gaze. “About how much I love you.”

There’s the smallest tremble to his voice, giving away the immense emotion behind the words.

And here’s the situation that Eddie never expected to be in, ever. His breath catches, his eyes widen — his heartstrings tangle and knot themselves as he soaks in Steve’s admittance. Love, love, love — he loves me.

His lips part, a raspy noise escaping as he tries to compute, tries to think of anything to say because the longer he stays silent, the more crushed Steve’s expression becomes. And then—

“Well, I luv ya too.”

The words fall out, thick in that godawful Cockney accent.

Steve's face doesn't change but Eddie's does, contorting in an amalgamation of pure cringe and panic as embarrassment crawls beneath his skin. He slaps his hand over his own mouth as if it can take back his awful reply to being told he's loved by Steve.

"I—" He starts, speaking through his fingers, except it still comes out in a funny accent. Eddie squeaks, his grip over his mouth tightening, brown eyes wide in his panic. Oh God, never in stupid silly life has his accents come back to bite him in the ass so magnificently.

"I'm so sorry," Eddie whispers-yells in his regular voice, finally dragging his hands off his face sluggishly. "Jesus H Christ, I didn't— that wasn't making fun of you, I— oh god, you know that happens when I'm nervous sometimes. Shit. Shit, I'm so sorry, Steve."

Steve hasn't moved, his hands still resting on the small of Eddie's waist. His expression is guarded, nothing betrayed. His dark eyes scan across Eddie's face and just before he speaks, the smallest glimmer of amusement glitters across his face.

"Well," Steve begins, heaving a faux large sigh. His hands squeeze comfortingly at Eddie's waist again. Eddie who is still frozen, still cursing himself internally, still echoing around the apparently true fact that Steve loves him— well, maybe not anymore with how awfully Eddie responded.

And then Steve opens his mouth and the most appalling attempt at some accent comes out. It makes his words all garbled and Steve's pink in the face, obviously embarrassed but trying to commit to some shoddy Scottish when he says, "Aye, that's al'right."

Eddie stares at him. Steve stares back.

The moment of silence is broken as laughter seizes him, a guffaw bursting from his lips and holy fuck, Eddie loves him so much. Steve laughs too, the two of them relaxing and sinking into one another. Eddie's hands, previously fluttering and unsure, find their natural place curled in underneath Steve's jaw and when he leans in, he's fighting off his laughter. His grin is unbearably wide, cheeks aching.

Steve's got this shine in his eye, his hands sliding further around to pull Eddie in closer, his pink lips quirked in delight. Eddie practically purrs, so close to kissing him but not quite closing the gap.

"Yep," He says, eyes bright as they bounce over Steve's face to drink in his boyfriend's love-soaked expression. He loves him. Steve loves him. Eddie sounds as lovesick as he feels when he whispers, "It's decided. I think you're it for me, Stevie-baby."

He presses forward, lets his mouth find their home in the curve of Steve's lips. It's warm like nothing he's ever felt before, softened by their gooey-grins of love. It's an in love kiss.

"Even if you're terrible at accents." He murmurs against Steve's mouth.

"Shut up."

Steve hisses, but he’s still grinning. The dinner bubbles behind them, still cooking away behind them. "Like I'm ever going to let you live that down."

Eddie finds he doesn't really mind all that much — God forbid his boyfriend ever remind him they're in love.

"Shut up," He still says, then sticks out his tongue, like he's ten years old. "You love me."

"I do." Steve admits easily, his fingertips dancing along the small of Eddie's back. Eddie has to tuck his bottom lip behind his teeth to restrain his wild grin.

"And I love you." He says, properly this time, jabbing his finger into Steve's chest — so there's no absolutely mistaking it.

[luludeluluramblings]

Smalltown!Reader Headcanons

Warning: Fem!Reader, Slight NSFW

A/N: If you don’t want Reader to be Fem! you can ignore. I’m more than content with that, and will do my best to keep Reader GN! in the main story.

Reader looks remarkably like Martha Wayne. She has the same grey eye color, dark curly hair, cheekbones, and chin. But, the rest is all her Momma.

Reader is from a small town in Louisiana. Somewhere outside of Lafayette.

Reader is of Creole and Cajun decent from her Momma’s side of the family. (There is a difference between the two. I also like to keep the skin tone ambiguous because of this.)

She has a Louisiana accent. (Gotham’s very own Southern Bell.)

Reader can speak French. Not completely fluent, but almost.

Reader prefers spicy food. Has a love for beignets too, due to shop in the Smalltown giving her a free one whenever she stopped by.

Reader is itty bitty titty committee member! She still got some meat on her, but she doesn’t have knockers. (I just want some small chested thick girl representation. Not a stick, just no tits.)

Reader can sing and play the guitar, not like a rockstar or some professional. Just fun and heartfelt.(Music vibes are the Crane Wives and Delta Rae.)

Reader loves fairs. Love’s the food, the music, the rides, the shows, the animals. Favorite part, cheating at the games.

Secretly is a Trekkie due to Daddy and Younger Brother’s influence. (I call Younger Brother Jean-Luc or Lukie-Boy in my head.)

Reader is more of tactician then most people realize. (Wayne genetics are strong.)

Do not let the innocent Smalltown charm fool you. Momma was a petty person and Reader takes after Martha Wayne in more than just looks. (And, in one universe, Martha Wayne becomes the Joker. Not saying that Reader will, but the tactical mindset is there.)

Reader can and is willing to play up kinks and flirt for tactical reasons. Will use Rizz to advantage. (Probably won’t use this in the story, but the idea is there.)

Reader is not a physical fighter. Too squishy and only slightly more flexible than average.

Is slightly spoiled. She didn’t grow up impoverished. (Smalltown wealthy is barely equal to Gotham middle class, though.)

Below is a doodle I made of Reader. I’m a bit out of practice. I’m serious, I barely have time to draw in recent years and legit just bought a sketch pad yesterday to get this out of my system.

[mossfrg]

Jersey Gotham

Okay as someone born and raised in Jersey, I feel like we as a fandom are missing out on truly Jersey-ified Gotham. Like, c’mon, Jersey Girl Brucie Wayne??? So here I am to present a list of things I need more of because god damn it make Batfam— mostly Bruce, Jason, Tim, Steph, and Duke— Jersey (all based on my own personal experiences/real things that have happened to me):

Bruce cannot pump his own gas. He just. Doesn’t know how to. It’s not like a rich person thing, he just never learned cause he’s from fucking Jersey and never leaves Gotham. Jason didn’t know how and Talía lost her shit “How??? You are child superhero??? Who died and spontaneously came back??? But you can’t pump gas??” Tim kinda knows cause of Titans but again, he never really had to. (There’s a Twitter threaded dedicated to the Wayne family titled “is this rich or Jersey”). Steph and Duke can but they both pretend not too.

There have been fist fights over whether it’s pork roll or taylor ham. Jason and Bruce are very adamantly pork roll like the good Southern Jersey boys they are— it’s the one thing they can agree in most days— but Tim is taylor ham. Steph and Duke, despite being South Jersey, like to cause chaos and flip sides constantly. Dick, Damian, and Cass couldn’t care less.

The Absolute Hatred of New York/NYC. Doesn’t matter which kid it is, Bruce (and Alfred) got them all on board with this. Don’t even get them started on the Statue of Liberty; it’s a Wayne family tradition to try and buy it from NY because technically it’s more in NJ than NY and it’s closer too. They’ve yet to be successful but Bruce has hope for when it’s Damian’s turn.

And bc of this hatred of NYC comes the support of Philly!! None of them are super big sport fans, but they do cheer for Eagles, 76ers, and Union. Bruce, thanks to Alfred, is a big fan of soccer (“it’s football, master Bruce, I didn’t raise you in a barn”), and is a member of the Sons of Ben. He can be found in the River End of the stadium with Jason cheering for Union at pretty much every home game. There are multiple videos of Brucie Wayne and Jason Wayne screaming at refs, launching fireworks off the roof, and cursing out opposing teams’ players. Duke and Tim can be found 76ers games, while Steph frequents Eagles games.

Accents. Pls for the love of god give those boys (and Steph) accents. They are from New Fucking Jersey. They say “cawfee” and “tawlk.” They pronounce 0% of their t’s in the middle of words— kitten is ki’en, Trenton is tren’in. Jason and Steph drop letters when they gets pissed, Bruce slurs words, Duke and Tim drop passive-aggressive “y’all’s” to piss people off.

Driving. Now it’s not that they’re shit drivers, it’s that everyone else is a shit driver, and it’s not helped that majority of them learned to drive in the Batmobile. Steph has a loudspeaker on her car and frequently yells “fucking Pennsylvania turn your goddamn blinker on!” while driving. Bruce has a room in the manor dedicated to his speeding tickets. Tim as gotten into multiple fists fights at lights because people were driving slow in the fast lane. Jason is infamous for doing the Jersey Slide.

Jason, Tim, and Steph have gotten mugged before. They talked their way out of it and gave tips to the mugger. Bruce has kicked a rabid raccoon while walking home before because what else was he supposed to do? Duke has ordered a “pork roll egg and cheese on an everything” before in Not-Jersey and cried because they don’t have it. Several foreign benefactors of WE have asked for translators at meetings with Brucie cause Brucie’s accent is so thick and exaggerated. IN CONCLUSION: making Batfam (and gotham) Jersey is funny as hell and presents so many good opportunities. Make Batfam Jersey! (again these are all just my personal experiences, big state yada yada, different experiences, blah blah idgaf I jsut need batfam fist fighting over pork roll)

[baddiewiththebook]

Over the Years | e.m x reader | Prologue

-> The origin story of Eddie Munson, and how he fell in love with the worst person he possibly could - his best friend.

-> eddie munson x you (she/her)

-> friends to lovers, slow burn, angst

-> warnings - strong language, suggestive themes, smut [18+]

-> a/n I hope you're ready for a long series. This will cover the life of Eddie Munson, growing up in a trailer park and perhaps falling in love with you. Of course, there's a few complications on the way (perhaps his friend steals his girl - or maybe he becomes a rockstar and moves away) and the series includes so many tropes that I've chosen to keep them hidden away, so you don't get spoiled for later chapters. Muahaha! This will include smut, so PLEASE for the love of God, if you're under 18 - go away! Longer chapters await my friends. xo

-> <-

August 1970

This chair is uncomfortable.

Well, it’s for sure plastic. The static is making Eddie’s shirt sit uncomfortably on his body like a magnet that tethers him by an invisible line of Velcro. It’s not even his shirt. It’s his father’s old beaten shirt from a few years ago when he went to a car show.

It’s been forever. Eddie cranes his neck to stare at the big clock on the wall that he cannot read. The big hand is on the two and the little one is at the top on the twelve. It’s terribly late for him to be up, but that’s also what he thought when his father shook him awake and shoved him in the backseat of their car.

Letting his feet swing below him, Eddie wrestles in the plastic seat. Not a lot is going on around him.

It isn’t like how he sees on the televisions through the video store windows where the bad guy gets taken down by the cop. Although, his dad sure did put up a fight trying to get away from the cop. That doesn’t mean his dad is a bad guy though, right?

There’s only one cop sitting at his desk with papers stacked around him. He’s darker in skin tone with a fair amount of hair missing on top of his head. Wrinkles press the crown of his head. Scribbling something on the official looking sheet of paper, the cop mutters under his breath when the phone blares out an obnoxious ringing.

“Hello?” His southern draw laces into the phone call. “Yeah, send him in.”

The telephone is set back down onto the base, and the officer tilts his head at the young child occupying the seat next to his desk.

Edward Munson is the unforgettable boy. The wild child has a father made of criminal infamy in Hawkins, Indiana. It would appear that this time the old bastard has really gotten himself stuck for the long haul. Prison time. Long sheets of paperwork include one particular document that lists Wayne Munson, the uncle, as the child’s dependent as of right now.

Wayne bursts through the door with the secretary from the front desk. Eyes scorching from an exhausting drive after a terribly unrewarding shift at the factory, Wayne lays his gaze upon his disheveled nephew. Eddie doesn’t even have a proper shirt draped over his body. There’s not a doubt in Wayne’s mind that Al, his brother and the boy’s father, refused to pay a dime for clothes to cover his child.

It’s been a terrible struggle to encourage Al Munson to step up and become a father to his son. After his wife, Elizabeth, died, Al latched onto slots to fill the hole inside of his chest. Slowly, sleepovers at Uncle Wayne’s became a lot more routine and a lot longer stay for little Eddie.

That’s not to suggest that Eddie minds. Uncle Wayne has some pretty cool toys at his trailer. And, Wayne has a bed for him - unlike his dad, who lets him have the backseat of the car.

Al Munson gambled away all of his savings, and the house was foreclosed by the bank. He’s been avoiding his debts by living in his car with five-year old Eddie. That only worked for so long. Eventually, the police caught up to him.

Tonight Al was arrested for possession of illegal substances and a warrant from some time ago, and he is awaiting a trial that will most likely keep him locked away for a while.

“Hey, Eddie,” uncle Wayne approaches the small boy by dropping into a squat that’s closer to Eddie’s height. “Are you alright?”

Eddie bobs his head up and down.

“Sir,” the officer calls his attention. “I just need you to sign a few things and then we can release him to you.”

The secretary does the same as his uncle had done, and squats to his height. She’s very pretty. Pinned hair sits atop her head in a bun that’s shaped like an egg. Eddie giggles at this, his baby cheeks turning pink.

“Hi, Eddie,” she says sweetly. “Would you like a candy bar? You’ve been doing such an amazing job waiting for your Uncle.”

Her teeth are as white as diamonds. Dimples press her fleshy cheeks up, as she holds out a small chocolate bar in her hand. Well, Eddie has been spoiled tonight. Not only is he up past his bedtime, the officer that brought him here stopped to get him a hamburger first. And, now?

Eddie does take the chocolate bar kicking his feet with glee. The secretary helps open up the bar of chocolate for him, and he gobbles it down fast before his Uncle Wayne could see. Wayne thinks sugar keeps Eddie up at night.

Eddie keeps Eddie up all night.

It’s mere moments when his uncle returns to him, and the secretary waltzes back to her duties at her desk. Uncle Wayne gives his nephew the tightest hug, while hiding his tears in Eddie's shirt. It’s never ideal to have a brother, who refuses to take care of his child. The least Wayne could do is keep Eddie safe and out of harms way.

Holding a copy of the terminated parental rights of Alan Munson with one hand, Wayne scoops the boy up with his other and keeps him holstered onto his hip.

“Hold on,” Wayne directs.

Eddie clings to the plaid fabric of his uncle’s shirt collar. Too soon, will Eddie be grown up to where Wayne can’t coddle him anymore.

The walk out of the precinct is short. Eddie waves goodbye to the officers and the secretary, who took care of him for the hour that Wayne prepared his home and drove out here to get his nephew.

Wayne drives extra slow that evening, even though the roads are clear. Feeling heavy for the loss of a father, Eddie must learn life skills from his uncle. Not being a father himself, Wayne is apprehensive at best. There’s not a thing he wouldn’t do for this boy. When Eddie came into the world, Wayne became the third person to ever hold him. That comes after his mother, and his father.

There is so much hope in a newborn baby. No one has broken them yet. There’s still so many firsts to explore the big wide world.

Slowing at a stop, Wayne cranes his head into his overhead mirror. Eddie is lopped over the seat bucket with a pile of drool coming from between his lips. His eyes flash underneath his eyelids.

What Wayne doesn’t know, is that Eddie hasn’t had a real sleep in days. Ever since they lost the house, Eddie has kept one eye open in the backseat of his father’s car. Sleeping outside isn’t exactly peaceful. Horns honking. Babies crying. Someone’s always yelling. Not to mention his dad snores. Loud.

Wayne decides not to wake the sleeping boy when he does eventually pull in to his humble trailer. Killing the engine, Wayne quiets for a moment. The soft snore from his lips eventually turns into a groan, and the young boy kicks his legs out. Sitting upright and sleeping cannot possibly be comfortable.

The thought of raising a child has never crossed Wayne's mind. After Eddie had been born, Wayne swore children were too much for him to handle. They cry all the time, then you have to feed them and you have to make sure they're clean and not to mention that when they keep crying for no reason - you can't kill 'em. 'Suppose in a way Wayne has gotten the parenting thing down because of Eddie anyway. Being an uncle to Eddie is the best thing that's ever happened to him.

Eddie took his first steps right on that front porch in front of his house. Elizabeth, Eddie's mom, was leaving Eddie for a couple of hours for work, and Eddie grabbed onto one of the couches before wobbling after her.

Oh, how Wayne misses her. She was a saint of a woman. When she got sick, Wayne saw a different person in Al. He's not too harsh on his brother. It can't be easy missing the love of your life like that. But, the boy - Eddie stretches out when Wayne opens the back passenger door - Eddie should have been enough of a reason for Al to keep going.

Wayne unbuckles the boy, who slumps forward. Catching his head, Wayne slides his other hand underneath the young boy's knees. Eddie stirs. Wayne holds in his breath and he freezes. Eddie tilts his head, eyes batting sleepily, then leans forward into his uncle's heavily beating chest.

"Alright," Wayne whispers into his curls, "Come on."

Carrying him up the steps, Wayne tries a few times to open the front door. Getting the key in the lock is one trick, but now to actually open the door? It would probably have worked best if he had done this before carrying a hefty sleeping five year old. Noted.

Eventually, he twists the knob and pulls. He pulls enough, so that he can wedge his foot in the door. Grunting, Wayne twists around and scoots into the home.

Eddie begins to slide from his grasp, and Wayne juggles him a bit before he can fall. Eddie’s quite long for a five year old. Or, so he assumes. His limbs splay out like a praying mantis.

There’s an extra bedroom in the back of the trailer. Little robots and figurines take up most of the space where Wayne’s collection of books once were. A rickety wood desk that’s peeling apart is home to a number of old train car toys that Eddie really liked out of Wayne’s collection.

Tucking Eddie in to the old twin bed he bought at the thrift store with nearly half his paycheck, the young child is surrounded by a plush layer of blankets and pillows. But, Eddie still clung to his uncle. Finally, someone who cares about him enough. Doubt scrambles Eddie’s mind and he wonders sleeplessly if his uncle would be there when he woke up.

It doesn’t take Wayne much convincing to slip into the tiny twin bed along side his nephew. Tiny mewls escape Eddie’s tired lips. Since he’s so scrawny and lengthy, Wayne has no trouble taking up the empty space in bed with him.

“You’re safe,” Wayne whispers into that wild mane of hair. “I’ve got you, now.”

-> <-

[June 1972]

[dimmadoome]

I am nothing if not a details oriented person. I like to suss them out. I like to see the whole picture so I can paint one myself and of course, I've been looking at the picture of Cooper Howard.

Here are a few things I've noticed. As I've stated before, Cooper is wearing the same outfit as he was in the begging of the show. That blue, white and yellow cowboy outfit. His signature outfit. That's still there, hidden underneath the dirt and the grime and the old, ratty coat, leather vest and bandolier. You can see it in the details of the shirt and the silhouette of the hat. That has been discussed so I'm glossing over that.

Another thing I've noticed is his voice. Specifically his accent. The Ghoul and Cooper Howard have a different accent. Cooper is subdued. He's a regular man with a regular voice. Sure there is a bit if a drawl to it, but not the way The Ghoul has one. Anyone from the south knows what a real southern accent is and what a fake one is. The Ghoul uses a fake one. A larger than life one. That old Hollywood John Wayne fakeass accent. Sure his voice is more fried and that could thicken up an accent some, but that doesn't mean his accent would get more pronounced like THAT.

He's acting the part of The Ghoul. Probably to protect himself in this hellscape that he has been living in for centuries. Its clear that The Ghoul is not who he really is. Its a persona to be slapped over his real one to keep him safe so he can get to his family. I can't wait to see the next season when Lucy and her gung ho, be a good person attitude starts to rub at him more and peel back his layers to press into the soft underbelly underneath. Wether or not he wants to acknowledge it, (which he does. He knoes it already, said it already.) She's his mirror into who he truly is. He might corrupt her to keep her safe (evidenced by the fact that when he cut off her finger, she was given a rotten one in its stead) but she will be the one to pull him back from the brink of losing himself. (It was HER finger he sewed onto himself after all. Her pristine, beautiful smoothskin finger.)

I could also say the arc between Cooper's prewar self becoming disenchanted with vault tec/being betrayed by his wife juxtaposed by Lucy's arc of finding her dad/learning how he betrayed her mom and the world is also a pretty serious mirror as well.

I just.... I've got a lot of feels about Cooper and the symbolism that went into him, plus how he and Lucy are pretty clearly mirrors of eachother. I love it all and I'm gonna need more of this injected right into my brain hole. I need to lick the walls of that studio because HOLY SHIT this show has so much love and care put into everything it does.