#excuse me while i still try to figure out how to DRAW CAINE

[etanow]

When ur zombie gf can't make blood on her own but she hates needles so you gotta distract her ♥️

[snackhobi]

pairing: min yoonji x reader / word count: 9.7k / genre: f x f smut, assassin!au

summary: a fic inspired by this post and that’s pretty much it-

warnings: sexually explicit content (NSFW), talk about death/assassination (nothing graphic dw! but they are assassins, so), mild violence, unnecessarily sexually charged lipstick application, face riding, fingering, multiple orgasms, oral (f giving/receiving), use of restraints, overstimulation, squirting, kind of dom!yoonji?

a/n: this is an entirely self-indulgent fic I wrote as a gift to myself for my bday, it’s a lil rushed bc I wanted it done for today! women are so very beautiful and I am so very weak, thank you ladies for all being so amazing ily. this was meant to be a short pwp and now it’s almost 10k but I have no regrets bye

--

la petite mort French literal meaning: ‘the little death’; also an expression used to refer to the brief loss or weakening of consciousness, specifically the sensation of orgasm as likened to death; an orgasm.

--

“It’s just unacceptable.”

The woman in front of you is clearly wealthy. Her dark hair is perfectly styled and her pale nails are perfectly shaped and her subtle makeup is perfectly flattering; she’s starting to get older but rather than shy away from it, she’s leaning into it, and she looks almost imperious in her beauty, eyes sharp and set of her lips severe. Park Dahye was born into wealth and has clearly thrived in the life that she’s been afforded.

“Mmhm.” You try not to yawn. 

“He’s flitting around with some young, silly thing on his arm, with no consideration for the family’s reputation— my reputation,” she continues. Her posture is perfect, from the set of her spine to her crossed legs to her folded hands that rest on her knee, somehow demure and yet highlighting all of her beauty and riches; the jewellery on her wrists and fingers, the expensive heels on her feet, the slit of her haute-couture dress, no doubt tailored for her and her alone. “I’ve already spoken to him about his behaviour, but he’s just ignored my warnings. We may have agreed on the divorce but we’re currently still husband and wife— has he no shame?”

“Awful.” You don’t even try to hide how bored you are, but Dahye is so quietly incensed that she doesn’t even notice as she launches into the next part of her queenly diatribe, and you muffle a sigh.

That’s the problem with rich clients. Sure, they’re willing to fork over stupid amounts of money to you, but they also think that their issues are of paramount significance— like they’re the centre of the universe and their problems are the only important ones in the world. Like you’re interested in what they have to say. Like this is the only job you’ll ever do that holds real weight or meaning.

For them, it’s a life-changing (life-ending) decision. 

For you? It’s another Tuesday.

“Yes, yes, that’s just so terrible, gosh, I don’t know how you manage it,” you say once she pauses to take a breath, using the opportunity to cut her off before she launches into another part of her articulate rant. “Anyway. Would you prefer if his death was embarrassing or quiet?”

For the first time since you’ve met, she seems unsettled. “Pardon?”

Namjoon is much better with people than you, smooth and charming with his boyish dimples. Normally any discussions would go through your handler, but this woman had demanded to meet you personally and had been willing to pay for the privilege: so here you are, with your relative bluntness instead of Joon’s winsome smile.

“You know,” you say, gesturing with your hands. “When they find the body. Do you want him to be caught with his trousers around his ankles—literally or figuratively, that’s up to you— or would you rather it seemed like something natural and unpredictable? Like a sudden heart attack in his sleep, for example.”

When it comes to rich clients, a lot of it is about reputation. When someone’s shuffled off this mortal coil, it’s not just that they’re removed from the equation, it’s also about the ripples that their death leaves in the high society that they’ve lived in. Does she want her (soon-to-be) ex-husband made a mockery of, or does she just want him out of the picture?

She can’t see your face, behind your mask as it is, but you can see hers in perfect clarity. For all that Dahye seems put together and almost impassive, you see the tiny flicker in her eyes. Ah. She’s not just mad because he’s ruining their reputation. She’s hurt.

Man, that sucks. Honestly you bet it’s easier being an assassin than a rich housewife. At least when it comes to backstabbing you can literally involve a knife to sort your problems out. (Well, knives are messy, but you get the picture.)

“I’d prefer something quiet,” she decides. “I’d worry that it could lead back to me, otherwise.”

You’d be offended at the idea that you’d leave any trace that could implicate anyone or that this man’s sudden death was in any way suspicious, but she’s paying you enough that you find that you don’t care. You take pride in your work, but for the amount of zeroes involved in the fee you’re being paid, you think you can take an unintentional insult or two. Or three. Or ten.

You like money, what can you say.

“Sure thing,” you say, giving her a lazy, two fingered salute. You’ve been reclining against the desk of the hotel suite, flicking the complimentary, heavy metal pen between your fingers, twirling it like the world’s most underwhelming baton. You straighten up and let the pen drop back into the pen pot—wait, no, of course it’s a handmade porcelain jar, an alarmingly well-made Joseon porcelain replica. Everything in here stinks of money. “RM will confirm where the money is to be deposited. Half of it now as collateral, and half upon completion of the job,” you say. “If you change your mind between now and then, we’ll be keeping the original 50%, but if for some reason something goes awry, you’ll receive that money back. Sound good?”

She seems surprised at your directness. “I—”

“Fabulous!” You clap your hands together, although the sound is muffled by your gloves. You’re not about to leave your fingerprints everywhere, geez. “Alright, time for me to skidaddle I suppose! I’ve got work to be doing, people to be watching, men to be killing!”

Dahye flinches imperceptibly, but by this point you’ve already slipped out onto the balcony and into the night.

--

Being an assassin is hard work.

Technically, everyone has the capacity to kill another human being. But killing as a job involves a lot more than just caving someone’s head in with a rock—that’s why Cain isn’t referred to as an assassin, what with how he’d just bashed his brother Abel with a convenient stone that happened to be lying nearby. He was just a straight up dick.

No, when you kill professionally you need to be familiar with an array of different techniques, each one far more sophisticated than the last. You need to know how to be stealthy, how to blend in as you watch your target, how to set up the scenes of their death in a way that doesn't arouse suspicion. Or, instead, how to set the scene up in a way that lets any onlookers know that this person had been offed by someone who knew what they were doing, and knew it well. There's a difference between being a killer and being an assassin and you are firmly in the latter category.

So, if your client wants her husband to be shuffled off quietly, then that’s what she’ll get.

They really have pulled out all the stops for this charity gala. Everything is shining, glittering and bright: the surroundings, the food, the people. Especially the people. The rich elite have come together for an extravagant and exquisite night of ostentation and luxury, all in the name of raising money for some needy cause. (You try not to think of the irony and/or hypocrisy behind that.)

It’s almost laughable how easy it is to blend in here. Namjoon had secured (forged) invitations for you both, and so you hang off his arm as you make a slow sweep of the room, trailing unnoticed after your target. You’re not planning to make a move right now but you want to feel out exactly what he’s like: the more information you have about the person you’ve been contracted to assassinate, the better. 

Plus it’s an excuse to dress up nice and eat free food— though that last part is mainly Namjoon.

“God, these canapés are so good,” Namjoon moans quietly to you, hoovering up the flaky pastry crumbs from his fingers with single-minded intent. You dig your fingers subtly into his arm.

“I thought we agreed on not eating tonight, Joon,” you mutter to him, although you say it with a beatific smile in case anyone is watching; the place is heaving with people but you’re always on guard. (Even if Namjoon is right. The hors d’oeuvres that are on offer do look incredibly tempting.)

“You have a glass of champagne,” he points out.

“And you may have noticed that I haven’t drunk any of it.” You titter, as if he’s just told a funny joke, and lightly slap his arm. Again, you’re fairly certain no one is watching, but you can never be too careful. “It’s all about creating a facade, Joonie. It’s what we in the business call a ruse.”

Even throughout your back and forth, you’ve kept your eyes on your man of the night: Park Minjae, a middle-aged businessman who’s been greeting people and getting swept up in conversation, all while a slip of a blonde clings to his arm, stuck to his side like a pretty limpet. She’s cute, sure, but she lacks the poise that Dahye has, so you frankly don’t get it. Then again, not everyone finds strong women as attractive as you do. Weirdos.

You’ve been focused on Minjae but your eyes have also been flitting around the room, drinking in your surroundings, drawing up a detailed map of your environment (of course you’d scoped out the building before tonight, but with all the banquet tables and chairs around the layout is a little different). The people, too, have been subject to your scrutiny, although so far they all seem summarily unimportant and uninteresting, just as you’d suspected. You lift your glass to your lips and pretend to take a tiny, demure sip, glancing up through your eyelashes to scan the room again, and you freeze.

Holy shit.

You take back what you just said about everyone being unimportant and uninteresting. 

The woman who’s just walked in is fucking stunning. Her sleek dark bob is unstyled, but perfectly frames her beautiful face: sharp eyes, soft nose, flushed lips. Her cocktail dress lets you see almost every inch of those perfect legs, the line of her thighs to her calves and— oh, you swear you could shed a tear of joy. She’s already tall and she’s made even taller by the heels she wears, towering above most of the men here, a fucking Amazonian goddess who looks powerful and undeniably elegant at the same time. 

(Thank you for your service, tall women.)

You don’t know who she is, but goddamn, do you want to. She’s scanning the room, and for a brief moment, your eyes touch. A tiny thrill shudders up your spine at the darkness of her keen eyes, that quick and astute gaze. 

It’s only the tiniest of moments that’s over as soon as it’s started. The dark-haired beauty looks away and is already disappearing into the crowd before you realise, and it’s only then you notice that you’re staring, utterly drawn in by her cool poise and presence. You’ve been frozen in place with the rim of your champagne  glass resting against your mouth, and your eyelashes flutter as you blink and glance down.

The imprint of your lower lip has been left on the glass, stark red visible against its edge, and you squeeze Namjoon’s bicep.

“How does my lipstick look?”

He takes one look at you as he swallows down another tiny vol-au-vent. “Like half of it is missing,” he says, and you frown.

“Ugh. I’ll go touch it up in the bathroom. Keep an eye on our guy, I’ll be right back.”

It’s not until you’ve made it to the toilets that you realise that you do not, in fact, have any lipstick in your ridiculously small clutch bag. When it comes to your actual work, you’re meticulous and thorough and well-planned, but for some bizarre reason, a tube of lipstick is never the top of the list when it comes to equipment. Unbelievable. (You knew you should have worn the 24/7 stuff, but it was always such a nightmare to get off.)

You’ve been so busy rummaging through your bag that you’re completely caught off-guard at the sound of a quiet voice from behind you.

“Lost something?”

Oh, fuck. It’s her, your dark haired and dark eyed beauty, meeting your gaze through the mirror when you glance up from where you’re resting your bag against the marble counter  (marble, marble, marble, it’s all marble: the floors, the counters, the sinks; why do rich people always love marble?). She looks altogether too amused at your plight and at how your eyes have widened perceptibly upon seeing her again. But can she blame you? Her presence is so graceful and commanding and she’s so dizzyingly attractive it’s insane. Surely she must get this all the time.

You stare for a little longer than is probably polite, and even behind her fringe you can see how one of her eyebrows rises.

“Sorry for staring,” you say once you notice. “You’re just so beautiful.”

She pauses as she takes in the compliment. You see how her eyes flicker over your face and settle on your mouth; your upper lip, tinted burgundy red, while the lower is faint and smudged.

“Lipstick problems?” She cocks her head at you, still staring at your lips in the mirror. God, she’s so hot.

“Can you tell?” You sound rueful as you glance down at the reflection of your mouth, touching your bottom lip lightly with a fingertip. “I forgot to bring any with me so now I’m stuck.”

She finally looks away from you. You hear a small, metallic click as she unclasps her evening bag— marginally larger than your own— and lifts out a small tube of liquid lipstick. “Would you like to use mine?”

Fuck yes you would. 

“Oh, would that be alright?” You finally turn around, and you have to tilt your head back to look at her, taller than you in her heels. Jesus Christ. She’s going to be the death of you. Why are women so gorgeous? Who gave them the right? “I’m not sure the shade will match, though?”

You watch her beautiful mouth curve up into a small smirk as she pulls out a tiny pack of makeup remover wipes from her bag, and you swear could propose to her there and then. Beautiful and tall and organised? Holy shit. What a woman.

She’s got her bag in one hand, while the lipstick and wipes are clasped in the other; her hand is held up in such a way that you think she means for you to take them from her, but when you reach out she shakes her head.

“I’ll do it for you,” she says. The quiet note of authority in her tone makes you go weak at the knees.

Thank god the toilets you chose aren’t the main ones, because it means there’s no one around to see how she tilts her head at the marble counter in the universal gesture of get on there. It’s entirely unnecessary, but you, of course, immediately comply. You brace your hands against the cold stone before hitching yourself up, careful with the draping folds of your dress; the cold touch of the stone is noticeable through the material of your dress, but it’s instantly forgotten when your enchantress steps closer. 

You spread your knees so she can stand between them. Holy shit, she’s even better up close. Her lashes are wispy but they’re the perfect frame for her gorgeous eyes, which are dark and intent. You suppress a shiver. You hold yourself still as she leans forward and around you so she can put her clutch and lipstick down, trying to ignore how close she is, but there’s no way she can’t realise what she’s doing. Your heart is pounding. You wish you didn’t have a job to do tonight because you would so much rather be getting, ah, acquainted with this woman rather than following some old businessman around.

The only noise in the bathroom is the sound of peeling plastic as she opens the tiny packet of wet wipes before she curls one around her finger, glancing at you through her lashes.

“Open,” she instructs.

Your mouth drops open immediately. She sweeps the wipe over your lips, bottom, then top, touch firm but careful, drawing away the red from your skin; you stare at her as she works, how her eyes are cast down as she stares at your mouth. She’s using her free hand to grip your chin and you feel deliciously powerless in her grasp. 

You purse your lips a little to try and help her, watching the way her eyes flicker as she pulls the wipe back over them— somewhat firmer, this time, with more intent. Lingering. The only barrier between her finger and your mouth is soft and flimsy, the texture of the wipe against your lips like cotton as it drags across them, and it would be so easy to pull it out of her hands.

She flicks the dirtied wipe aside, heedless of how it lands on the unsullied marble, before reaching for her lipstick. She twists the tube in her fingers, motions of her hands precise and deft, and you’ve never been so attracted to how someone’s uncapped something before. 

You watch her hands. (She watches you.)

Your eyes trail over the wand as she pulls it out, dragging the doe foot against the rim to catch the excess before turning it towards you, putting the tube by your thigh, near where your hand is bracing against the marble. She takes hold of your chin once again. You stay quiet as she starts to sweep the lipstick over your lips, painting them the same flushed pink as her own. Once again she’s staring at her work so you’re free to drink her in, almost drunk from her beauty, eyes catching on the tiny moles on her pale skin, the smallest freckles that are only noticeable because you’re this close.

The squelch of the applicator sliding into the tube is almost lewd in the silence of the bathroom, and this time you can’t suppress a shiver when she pulls your chin down to open your mouth so she can go back in again on your lips, drawing a sharp, crisp line. Tracing the edges of your lips, the flushed swell of them, the peak of your cupid’s bow.

She glances up. For a moment you’re both still, staring at each other, tension in the air palpable, but then she smacks her lips and you copy the motion, evening the application of the makeup on your mouth. 

“Perfect,” she murmurs. “One more step.”

A small, confused frown flits over your face. She’s put the lipstick aside but then she lifts a finger and points towards your still parted lips. You take in a small, shuddering breath when she speaks again and you realise what she means.

“You don’t want to get lipstick on your teeth, do you?”

Both of her eyebrows have risen and she’s looking at you like you’re being silly if you disagree with her.

“No,” you say. You’re not about to deny her. “No, I don’t.”

Your eyes remain locked. You lean forwards, taking that perfect, long finger into your mouth, dragging your lips upwards so that any excess lipstick is caught against her pale skin, a ring of deep rose circling her bottom knuckle; you curl your tongue around her, hot and wet, feeling the crease of her knuckles and pad of her fingertip against your taste buds as you slowly, slowly pull away. 

It’s undoubtedly indecent and risqué and you can feel the flush of arousal settling in your lower belly, an almost embarrassing flush of wetness leaking out of you at the taste of her skin. She, however, remains unmoved, although she lets her finger linger just for a moment on your bottom lip, almost rough against their softness— but before you can swallow those fingers back down and ruin her meticulous work, she pulls away, lifting the discarded wipe to sweep it around her finger, catching the lipstick you’d left on her skin.

“Done.”

She steps back and you feel like you can finally breathe, a breath so deep you can feel how your lungs fill, oxygen rushing to your brain so fast you feel lightheaded. You watch as she sweeps everything back into her bag, clicking it shut with a note of finality; the sullied wipe is cast carelessly into a tiny, chrome bin with a flick of a wrist, her every motion regal.

You slide off the counter. You still can’t take your eyes off her and you don’t want to. It feels like whatever heaviness was in the air has dissipated, gone in an instant with a turn of her head— normally you’d let it slide, even if you feel disappointed, but she’s just so magnetic. 

“Thank you,” you say. You can see yourself in the mirror now and to your complete lack of surprise, your lipstick is perfect. The shade is lighter than one you’d have chosen for yourself but it’s beautiful on her, of course.

“You’re welcome.” She’s in the middle of washing her hands, but she glances over her shoulder at you, and the firm set to her face lightens a little as she smiles. It’s a small, sly thing, and you realise with a start that she knows exactly what effect she has on you.

I’m coming back for you, you think to yourself. You have work to do tonight, but—

“What’s your name?”

She pauses. She shuts off the tap with a quick motion, reaching forward for a rolled hand-towel, a neat stack on a metal tray nearby. You wonder if she’s not going to answer but then she speaks, looking at you instead of the soft cotton she’s rubbing over her skin. “Yoonji,” she says. “I’m Min Yoonji.”

Min Yoonji is the most gorgeous fucking woman you’ve ever seen.

“I love your dress, Yoonji,” you say, and it’s true, you really do— but you’d prefer it if it was off. Not that you’re about to say that, of course.

She lets out a breath of laughter. “I know.” Oh, god, you love confident women. “What’s your name, darling?”

You have that same split second of hesitation, similar to Yoonji’s only moments prior. You use a codename when you work, of course, and you have a plethora of fake identities that you use and are intimately familiar with— but the idea of your real name falling off Yoonji’s flushed, petal lips? Woof.

“Y/n L/n,” you say. 

Oh, Joon would be so unimpressed right now, giving some mysterious woman your full, real name just because you think she’s the sexiest thing since sex, but whatever. What he doesn’t know can’t hurt him.

“Well, Y/n,” Yoonji says. You were right, your name sounds so good falling from her mouth, the mouth that’s turned into a small, almost smug smile. “I certainly hope to see you at the charity ball in a few weeks?”

“Of course.” Your schedule has been magically cleared and you’ll definitely be in attendance for whatever ball Yoonji is referring to, even if you have no idea what it is. You only come to these things if you have to for work but for Yoonji you’ll make an exception. You’ll make a hundred thousand exceptions. A hundred thousand quinquagintaquadringentillion exceptions. “I’ll make sure to remember my lipstick next time.”

And there it is, the thing that seals the deal, the final nail in the coffin: Yoonji glancing at you out of the corner of her eyes, a sharp, dark touch that shoots through you as her smile edges into hunger.

“Don’t worry,” she says. “I’m sure it won’t stay on your lips long enough to matter.”

--

The thing you’ve discovered about Minjae is that, with his divorce due to be finalised soon, he’s apparently lost any sense of routine and is revelling in his new found freedom, which is kind of irritating when you’re trying to tail the guy. Sure, you’re still going to take him out, but you prefer it when targets have some sort of schedule that they adhere to— makes it easier to set up a kill.

“You’re certain that he’s going to be here tonight?” You’d been sceptical considering how the guy’s apparently thrown his schedule out of the window, but Namjoon had been certain.

“Positive.” He’d said. “He’s there every Tuesday night. You’ll have plenty of time.”

The house appears to be deserted. The driveway is empty and all the windows and doors are locked tight. It’s just one of the properties that the Parks own in the city, and for all its size and lushness it appears as though this one is rarely frequented; you imagine that the cleaners and gardeners spend more time here than the owners themselves.

It doesn’t take you long to evade the watchful eyes of security cameras to pick a lock and slip inside. You're grateful for the dying evening light that helps cover your tracks from any onlookers from the street, although you imagine the high walls do good work at preventing people from seeing into the grounds anyway.

There’s still enough light to navigate through the house, the golden tinged sunset casting warm shadows across the spotless furniture and fixtures; you take a moment to let your eyes slide across a huge canvas hanging on a wall that spans two storeys, some impressionist piece that’s surprisingly ugly for all the talent that’s obvious in its brushstrokes. Maybe that’s why the Parks are never here? You’d certainly try to avoid seeing this thing if you could. Eurgh.

Even though the building is empty, you’re careful as you start to make your way forwards. You always place your toes down first whenever you take a step, soundless as you start to map the house out in your mind; there are so many rooms you can hide in, but you’d prefer to be close to wherever Minjae ends up. Saves faffing around later. 

You’ll overpower him, inject the toxin into his blood and wait for him to die before setting him up on the toilet— it’s surprisingly common for people to die while on the shitter, the strain leading to an untimely heart attack, especially in older people. The poison you’re using tonight will mimic the symptoms of a heart attack in the case the coroner decides a post-mortem needs to be undertaken.

(Being found on the bog might not be a particularly graceful way to die but when you’re dead it’s kind of hard to be embarrassed.)

You’ve eased the door open into a large bedroom, and you’re just inspecting if it looks like this room sees more use than the others when you pause. It’s deathly silent in this building, the air still minus where you glide through it as you move, but there’s a feeling in your gut, some instinct that makes all the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. You freeze, ears straining to catch any noise to let you know if there’s someone else here, when—

There. In the reflection of a burnished pot, the tiniest shifting movement.

You react almost faster than the eye can see. You spin to parry a hit that was aimed for your head, and the strength behind it shudders through your arms. You only have a second to take in the details of your assailant— dressed in dark clothing, masquerade style mask in place, a professional just like you— before you’re deflecting another flurry of blows, flipping backwards out of reach before spinning into a kick, hooking that burnished pot with your foot and sending it flying towards the other assassin.

They dodge it. You both ignore the sound of clattering metal as you lunge forwards, trying to catch them off guard after their sidestep— your fist makes contact with their palm instead of their face, your hand engulfed in theirs, and you startle at their speed. You might not be the strongest but you’re damn fast. 

There’s a pause, and you can only see a slither of their eyes through the sockets of their mask, but you can tell that they’re impressed. And honestly? So are you. 

The moment shatters when they use the hand they're holding to twist you, locking an arm around your neck and putting you into a chokehold; they’re strong, stronger than you, cutting off your airflow. You need to get out of this before you fall unconscious, but if they’re trained as well as you then they’ll know how to combat the usual ways you’d use to get out of this.

So, in a demonstration of your flexibility you kick a leg up, using the strength of your thighs and calves to slam it into the arm that’s around your neck. Your assailant lets out a noise of surprise and pain as you slip out of their hold and cartwheel across the room before spinning to face them.

There’s a beat. The air is tense. You get another chance to take in the details of whoever’s just tried to choke you out; you stare at her as she stares at you, the two of you poised and ready to strike, watching and waiting. 

Knives might be messy but of course you’re not unarmed. You have multiple sheathed weapons in your clothes, though you don’t make a move to draw any of them. Yet. “I suppose you wouldn’t tell me who your employer is, would you?”

Your opponent tilts her head. “You don’t know?” She sounds amused, even through her mask. “Minjae took out a contract on the assassin who has a contract on him.”

Your lip curls back from your teeth. The only way Minjae would have heard about your contract is if Dahye had told him. Presumably to try and shock him out of his behaviour, or something, who knows. “This is the last time I’m accepting a job from these rich old farts,” you mutter. 

“That’s for certain,” she says. 

She starts to move and you catch her arm just as she goes to unsheathe a wicked looking blade, knocking it aside before she overpowers you and you start to wrestle. It’s messy and graceless but sometimes you just have to fight dirty. 

Whoever this woman is, she still has the upper hand because she was expecting you and you weren’t expecting her; she knocks you onto the bed and pins you down, swooping the knife up from where it had been thrown onto the mattress. You go utterly still as she holds it against your throat, towering over your from where she’s straddling your waist and kneeling on your arms. Any sudden movement from you now could lead to your untimely demise— and, unsurprisingly, you absolutely want to avoid that at all costs.

Namjoon would never let you live it down if you were killed on the job.

You hum. “It seems like we’ve reached an impasse.”

She doesn’t respond. The knife doesn’t dip any lower, though; you’re undoubtedly at her mercy but you notice she’s careful to keep the knife still, hovering above the skin of your neck, but not making contact.

“Well,” you continue. “At least I’m going out the way I’d always hoped to.”

Even in the dying light and with how her face is covered, you notice her face shifting behind her mask— a silent, questioning raise of an eyebrow. You give her a cheeky smile that crinkles your eyes.

“In bed with a beautiful woman, of course.”

At this she huffs out a laugh. “Do you flirt with every person who tries to kill you?”

You’re trying to look as non-threatening as possible to keep that knife away from your jugular. The longer you talk, the longer you live, even if you can’t see a way to get out of this situation right now. “Only the pretty ones.”

The small laugh she lets out this time seems more like a scoff. “You don’t even know what I look like.”

“Please.” You roll your eyes. “Any woman who can fight like you and knows how to handle a knife? Automatically hot. I don’t need to see your face to know that.”

The knife still hasn’t moved. She continues to stare you down and you go tense when her free hand moves. She tugs the cloth of your mask down to reveal your face, the air of the room almost cold against the suddenly bared skin, your breaths free to curl out unhindered.

“Usually I like to be taken out to dinner at least once before we get this intimate, but for you I suppose I’ll make an exception.” You’re still grinning cheekily at her, but your mind continues to race as you try to think of a way to get out of this, especially now that she’s seen what you look like—but you suddenly notice that she’s gone very, very still.

“Y/n?”

The grin freezes on your face. Oh, you’re so boned. You’re so very boned. Like, yeah, you’ve been seconds away from death for the past, hmm, five minutes, but this is somehow worse. How the fuck does she know your name?

You’re given the answer almost immediately. She withdraws the hand from your chin and reaches for her own mask. Your eyes widen and your breath stutters in your throat once you see who it is.

“Holy shit,” you breathe.

Yoonji is staring down at you. She’s every inch as imperious and stunning as the last time you’d seen her— hell, even moreso now that you’ve seen what she’s capable of. No wonder you hadn’t been able to find out anything about her after you’d met at that garish charity gala. Because she’s untraceable, just like you.

“Well.” You stare back at her, not even attempting to keep the surprise off your face. “If anyone has to kill me at least I can die satisfied in the knowledge that it was you. Can I make a request? I’d be eternally grateful if you smothered me to death with your thighs. Just a suggestion, feel free to ignore it if you want.”

Yoonji cocks her head. Her bob is tied back, but there’s a loose lock of hair curled by the side of her face that shifts at the motion. Your fingers twitch. If she wasn’t kneeling on your arms you know you wouldn’t be able to stop yourself from tucking it behind her ear. Any excuse to touch her. “Do you always talk so much?”

“Hey, if it means I get to feel your legs around my face before I die, I’ll give a full fledged TED talk,” you say. “I have to admit, though. When I pictured us in bed together I didn’t think it would be like this.”

The knife still hasn’t moved from your throat. She continues to stare, as if considering what to do next, though her face remains impassive. “What did you think it would be like?”

“Well, you know. Less knives and clothes involved and a lot more making out,” you answer. “You, telling me what to do. Me, entirely at your command. Anything the lady wants, she gets.”

The human body is a fickle and strange beast. Ever since you discovered who’s straddling you, you’ve been growing wetter and wetter, even if you’re trying not to let on that you’re steadily growing more aroused— you’re still distinctly aware of the knife that’s only centimetres away from your skin, but somehow your body is more focused of the fact that the woman you’ve been daydreaming about is finally in front of you again. 

(Well, less in front of you and more on top of you, which is an admittedly preferable option, sans the knife involvement.)

You see how Yoonji’s eyes are darting over your face. No doubt taking in how your pupils are dilated, how your breaths are a little shallower, quicker— signs of fear and signs of arousal are surprisingly similar. You wonder if she can identify which it is. Probably. You’re not exactly very subtle in your attraction to her.

“I forgot my lipstick again,” you add, and Yoonji’s passive mask finally breaks when she rolls her eyes.

“Didn’t I say you wouldn’t need it?”

Even the way she throws the knife aside is gorgeous. The sharp undulation of her wrist as she sends the blade skittering across the polished wood floor is careless and fluid. Her hands cup your face as she bends down, and you send up a mental thanks to any god or higher being who might be listening before Yoonji presses her lips to your and your brain goes blank.

Apparently Yoonji likes it messy. One of her hands is grasping your chin in a mockery of the last time you’d met and she’d painted your lips— your mouth is open and she licks past your lips as you shudder beneath her. She’s still got her knees pressed into your arms, pinning you down, but you desperately crane your head towards her, chasing that kiss; you tilt your head to deepen it, and the whine that leaves you when she pulls away is almost embarrassing.

The sun has finally dipped below the horizon and the room is dark, painted in shades of grey and deep blue. You wish you could see Yoonji properly and you can’t help but wriggle a little underneath her, but then you watch her raise her hands and clap three times in rapid succession before the room floods with dim light. Sound activated lights? Damn.

Yoonji’s mouth shines, covered in a sheen of your mixed saliva, her pretty lips flushed rose pink; even without makeup they’re beautiful and their colour is deep, the blooming petals of a flower. Your eyes trail over her face, down her neck, over the fall of her chest and stomach— you’re both far too covered up in these stupid ensembles of yours and you want to strip the clothes off her. You want to see every inch of her beautiful, majestic body, bared for your lips and hands.

Fuck, she’s so gorgeous.

“Not to, um, ruin the moment, but my hands are going numb.” The weight of Yoonji’s body being pressed into your arms has pretty much cut off the blood flow to your fingers and you can feel the telltale sensation of pins and needles spreading through your skin. “Can I have those back, please?”

Yoonji lifts her knees just enough for you to slide your arms out from underneath them. You immediately shed your gloves and go to grab her ass but she gives you a sharp look and you freeze, slowly settling them on her thighs instead, which she allows with only the slightest raise of her eyebrows.

“Watch,” she commands, and who are you to disobey?

She reaches for the tie in her hair, tugging it out and letting her dark locks fall to frame her lovely, beautiful face. You hungrily swallow down each sight that she feeds to you, the skin that’s revealed as she shrugs off her layers of clothing. She unbuckles the weapons hidden underneath her clothes as she sheds them; she’s a veritable arsenal of firearms and knives, all cast carelessly aside until her upper body is finally, blessedly naked. You’ve been staring at her the whole time, the graceful column of her throat, the delicate lines of her collarbones, and your gaze falls to her breasts, small and perfect, nipples dusty pink and hard. You want to put your mouth on them.

“Holy shit, you’re perfect,” you say.

She smirks. You watch as she rolls her body, lifting up from her knees and standing up, towering above you on the bed—your hands fall to the mattress as she pulls her trousers down, tight material dragging against her skin as she slides it over the curve of her hips and down her long legs. There’s a dagger strapped to her thigh, which she unbuckles and lets fall to one side, but god, if she used it to kill you right now, you would die a happy woman. The image of Min Yoonji towering above you in nothing more than some flimsy underwear is one you want to take to the grave.

You can see how the material around her entrance is darkened with her arousal, and you feel your own body react to the sight, pussy throbbing, your own lower lips slick underneath all your layers of clothing. Yoonji hooks her thumbs into her panties and pushes them down, and you’re enraptured as you watch how the wetness clings to them, before that last bit of clothing is cast aside too. 

You moan, unable to stop the sound bubbling up in your throat. From how she’s standing above you, legs spread from how her feet are either side of your hips, you can see everything—how her cunt is flushed, how wet she is, her folds shining. You bet she tastes so fucking good.

You let your mouth fall open, tongue lolling out in a way that’s obscene. You see Yoonji’s eyes flicker as she traces the motion, the way she takes in your expression: wide, hungry eyes, parted lips, wet tongue. Your hands skim up the back of her calves as she shifts forwards and returns to her knees, her naked core so, so close to your mouth, and you dig your fingers into her skin.

“Bon appé-fucking-tit,” you murmur, and then you pull her onto your face.

Yoonji gasps. 

(You were right. She tastes so, so fucking good.)

You’re utterly shameless as you slurp up her juices, the wetness that continues to leak out of her as you bury your face into her cunt, tongue lapping over her entrance as your nose brushes her clit. Your hands have moved to the flesh of her ass and you encourage her to grind against you, rolling her hips towards your greedy mouth; you’re staring up at her, drinking down her reactions, the way her face twists with pleasure and the shuddering breaths she takes in, perfect little breasts jumping at the motion. There’s a flush spreading down her neck and chest, pale skin blushing pink, and it’s the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen.

You purse your lips against her clit, circling it with your tongue before dipping back down between her folds. Each time you breathe in all you can smell is her scent, heavy and dark, all your senses filled with Yoonji, Yoonji, Yoonji. When you hum against her, Yoonji arches her spine and throws her head back, so when you press your tongue into her you hum again, letting the vibrations shiver through her.

“Yes,” she gasps, rutting against your face. “Yes, yes—”

Her thighs tighten around your head. You redouble your efforts, watching her face as you continue to swipe your tongue up her slit and through her folds; you wish you could swallow each of the noises that are falling from her lips as she reaches the crest of her pleasure, the little gasps and moans each time you move your tongue in a particularly wicked way.

“There,” she says. “There, there, just like that—”

Your jaw aches but you don’t even register it, too intent on keeping your mouth open and hot and wet against her. It only takes a few more swipes and flicks of your tongue before she shudders violently, canting her hips towards your mouth as her legs go tense and she cums. She continues to straddle your face as she rides out the waves of pleasure, and you swallow down the wetness that flushes out of her rippling cunt, ignoring the throbbing between your own legs.

You can’t talk, muffled by her as you are, but your mind is singing. Look at you, you think. Look at how gorgeous you are. God, I could eat you out all day. (What a blessed life that would be.)

You can tell when Yoonji’s edged into oversensitivity, jolting when your tongue sweeps over her swollen clit; she settles back, knees spread as she rests against your heaving chest, legs tensing each time an aftershock shivers through her. Your mouth is open as you pant in air, but she watches as you swipe your tongue over your lips, catching the lingering taste of her on you, your chin opalescent with her arousal.

“Okay,” you say, breathless. “I’ve done everything that’s worth doing. I’ve peaked. Everything is downhill from here. You can kill me now.”

You’re only half joking, but your thighs instinctively go tight to rub against each other when you see how Yoonji’s eyes darken.

“I’m not done with you yet,” she purrs.

Yoonji might be naked while you’re still clothed, and so still armed, but she’s undoubtedly the one who’s in control right now. You are so, so okay with that. You watch with wide eyes as she shifts back, her hands grabbing the material of your jacket to tug you upwards, but before she can strip off your clothes you capture her lips with your own.

The taste of her is still heady and deep in your mouth and you nip at her bottom lip before pressing your tongue forwards. The kiss is already slick from Yoonji’s wetness and when you pull away, there’s a thin string of saliva that connects you for a moment before it breaks, which Yoonji wipes away from your chin with the pad of her thumb.

“Dirty girl,” she says, and you bite back a moan at the unabashed lust in her voice. Her grip on your chin is firm. “Did I say you could kiss me?”

“No,” you answer. “I couldn’t help myself.”

She tuts, as if disappointed, and every one of your nerve endings feels electrified, ready and anticipating whatever Yoonji is going to do next. “Such a shame,” she says. “You just can’t keep your hands or mouth to yourself, can you?”

“Can you blame me?”

Yoonji huffs out a laugh through her nose. She strips your jacket off in one sharp motion and then your shirt is similarly pulled off with single-minded intent, along with every other piece of equipment cinched to your arms and body. When you reach for her, though, she captures your wrists, her face stern.

“If you keep moving without permission, I’m going to take that privilege away from you.”

You don’t have to see your own eyes to know how your pupils will have dilated from that statement, blood thrumming through your veins, and you can tell Yoonji has noticed when her expression shifts.

“Oh.” A small, triumphant smirk appears on her face. “I see.”

You lift your arms up so she can pull your sports bra off (of course if you had known you’d been running into Yoonji again you would have worn something nicer). Rather than touch your heaving chest, however, she pushes you down onto the mattress, a hand around your wrists so they’re held above your head.

“Keep still,” she says.

She reaches for the holster that you’d had around your upper arm, lazily casting the knife aside before looping it around your wrists and pulling it secure.

Yoonji’s fingers ease under the nylon as she checks the fit. It’s tight, but not so much so that it’s painful or dangerous, and there’s a hushed moment when the realisation hits you— Yoonji and yourself are both skilled enough to know that you could easily free yourself if you wanted to. It would only take a little motion of your wrists and hands and you could slip them out of the makeshift cuffs in an instant.

You melt into the mattress. Yoonji’s eyes shift away from your wrists as she takes in the way you’ve gone utterly relaxed and limp below her, staring back at her. You see an expression flit across her face faster than you can see, before she slides down your body so she can push your legs apart.

You lift your hips to help her strip your trousers off. Her hand lingers on the concealed holster around your thigh, eyeing the small pistol nestled inside it, before that too is stripped off and cast aside. Her hands trail over the soft skin of your hips and stomach, eyes skimming over the bared length of your body before settling between your legs, the slickness of your inner thighs.

“You got this wet just from eating me out?” Her pretty mouth is curled into an expression that’s almost mocking, and your legs jolt as she runs her fingers lightly over your lower lips before rubbing her fingertips together to feel the wetness she’s gathered. “I haven’t even touched you yet.”

Your nails dig into your palms as your hands twist against each other and you shift your legs further apart. “Please, Yoonji,” you plead, shameless from desperation and arousal.

She laughs at your obvious hunger. “I suppose I should return the favour, shouldn’t I?”

You watch breathlessly as she lifts her fingers to her lips, swallowing them into her mouth to get them slick and wet. The motions of her tongue are languid as she licks across her fingers. You’re like a livewire, thrumming with electricity, and the sensation of her finally sinking one of those fingers into you sends sparks throughout your body.

Yoonji’s maddeningly slow. Your body takes her readily, her long finger gliding easily in and out of you, but she makes no move to speed up; you let out a small noise and she moves upwards to kiss you, as if indulging you, and you’ve just relaxed against her mouth when she plunges a second finger in.

She swallows your gasp as her fingers speed up, before she starts to kiss across your jaw, your neck, between the valley of your breasts and then closing her mouth over one of your nipples— she times the flick of her tongue with the thrust of her fingers, and then you feel how she takes her thumb to press your clit at the same time and you’re gone, falling over the edge faster than you’d expected. Your orgasm is fast but deep, your walls clenching tight around the fingers that continue to curl in and out of you, but she doesn’t stop.

“Yoonji,” you gasp. “It’s too— oh—”

Those two fingers continue to rub your sweet spot as you edge into oversensitivity but Yoonji doesn’t let up. She continues to lick and bite at the skin of your chest, putting her mouth to your other breast and circling the hardened bud of your nipple with her tongue before kissing down your stomach, your pubic bone, and then pressing her lips to your swollen clit.

You whimper. Her pace of her fingers has quickened, and she curls them each time she almost pulls them out, the squelch of their motions obscene as they slide through the cum of your first orgasm. She stares up at you, lapping at your clit with her tongue, and you can feel the saliva that’s dripping from her mouth and over your flushed core, every inch of you oversensitive but screaming with pleasure.

It’s almost painful, but you can feel an orgasm creeping through that ache; you wring your hands together and sob as Yoonji continues to finger fuck you without mercy, her pace almost bruising, the thrust of her knuckles against you each time she bottoms out just one more layer on top of that overwhelming pleasure.

“Yoonji,” you gasp. “I’m g-gonna cum again.”

She hums against you, and you make an incoherent noise at the feeling of that sound against your clit, almost too much— and then she presses one more finger into you, and that’s it, that slight burn and stretch sending you hurtling over that edge again. When you cum, your hips buck and you gasp, air rushing into your lungs before it escapes you in a moan of ecstasy; the only sensations registering in your mind right now are the ripples of pleasure spreading through your cunt as Yoonji pulls her fingers out of you, pressing down on your clit in a way that’s almost cruel, and you sob as your legs instinctively try to tighten but are prevented from doing so by Yoonji’s unyielding presence.

She’s staring down at you as you start to go lax, and you think she’s finished with you, but you watch with widening eyes as she takes her ring and middle finger to run them through your sodden folds. You sob again when those fingers plunge back into you, palm pressing against your clit each time she curls her fingers, and you squirm underneath her.

“Yoonji, it’s too much,” you cry.

“One more.” Yoonji’s leaning back and staring at you, taking in the sweat that’s beading across your skin, the tears that are gathering in your eyes and threatening to spill down your face and into your hair. “You’re doing so well, darling, you can give me one more, can’t you?”

Your reply is incoherent, a small noise that shudders out of the back of your throat. You’ve never been thrown so thoroughly into pleasure like this, overstimulated and aching, but there’s that flicker of pleasure still between your legs, growing each time Yoonji beckons with her fingers, curling over your abused sweet spot again and again and again.

“Just say the word and I’ll stop,” Yoonji says, the wet plunge of her fingers into your abused pussy so messy and loud but not enough to drown her out. “One word and I’ll stop.”

You don’t say anything. You just let your eyes roll back into your head as you cant your hips towards her, trying to latch onto that thread of pleasure that’s thrumming through you below all your screaming nerves, and the noise Yoonji makes is pleased.

“There we go,” she praises. “Look at you, so good for me. Pretty darling.”

You can feel how your pussy clenches around Yoonji’s fingers, how the coil in you is squeezing tighter and tighter, how another orgasm is somehow creeping up on you— you tilt your hips towards that feeling, towards Yoonji’s hand, and then she’s pulling her fingers out of you in an almost rough motion and you’re cumming harder than you ever have before.

“Oh, fuck!” You sob. 

It’s indescribable. The sensation rips through you as your back arches off the bed and you’re cumming and squirting and gasping and you can feel the wetness that slicks out of you, your toes curling as your brain goes blank from the staggering pleasure and static consumes every one of your senses. Your entire body feels like nothing more than a vessel for the ecstasy that’s shooting through your veins, spreading out from your core and to every corner of your insides and limbs.

It takes you a while to come back around, aftershocks wracking through your body. You feel sluggish and slow as your mind slowly clears, focusing on the sensation of warm hands stroking over the skin of your stomach and hips and thighs; your eyes flutter open and when you glance down you can see the shine to Yoonji’s skin, evidence of your pleasure painting her in a thin sheen of liquid.

“Oh my god,” you moan. “Holy shit.”

She smiles. “You were so, so good for me,” she says. She leans down to press a light kiss to collarbones and you shiver. “So beautiful. How are you feeling?”

“Like I’ve died and gone to heaven before coming back again,” you reply. “Oh, that was so good, Yoonji. I’ve never squirted before. I didn’t realise I could. God.”

Yoonji laughs lightly. You can’t help but watch the way it transforms her face, the way her chest jumps at the motion, every inch of her gorgeous and majestic and cute and pretty. “You did so, so well,” she praises, before she kisses you, her mouth so soft; you barely notice the sudden easing of pressure around your wrists as she releases you, more intent on the sensation of her soft petal lips against your own.

You stare up at her as she pulls away. Powerful, amazing Min Yoonji, kneeling between your legs, naked but not helpless. Definitely less vulnerable than you right now. And yet she’s still making no moves to grab one of the many weapons littered around the bed so she can finally finish her contract by completing the kill. It would be so easy for her.

The silence of the room is suddenly broken by a tiny buzzing noise. You both glance over at the sound, one that Yoonji doesn’t recognise but you do— the communicator in one of your wristbands, the one you use to keep in contact with Namjoon.

You watch the twisting of Yoonji’s body as she leans over the bed to hook the band with a finger before proffering it to you. You pause, but then grasp her wrist and lightly pull so she ends up pressed against you, softness of her breasts against your own, and you hold the communicator between your faces as you accept the call.

“Thank god you answered.” Namjoon’s voice is obviously frantic even through the tinniness of the small speaker. “Dahye cancelled the contract because Minjae wants to reconcile with her, but apparently he’s already put a hit out on you— tonight was a ruse, Minjae isn’t going to be there, you have to get out of there—”

“Bit too late for that,” you interrupt. Yoonji’s hair is tickling your cheek. “Don’t worry. I have it in hand. Send some flowers to Minjae for me, will you?”

“Flowers?” Namjoon sounds understandably confused. “Why?”

“As a thank you for taking out a contract on me,” you say. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m a little busy.”

“With what?”

“With me,” Yoonji says, and you hear Namjoon’s surprised intake of breath before you cut the line.

You end up laughing to yourself. “Oh, he’s going to hate me for that,” you giggle. Yoonji’s hand trails up your stomach and you continue to giggle at the ticklish sensation. Her skin is still slick against yours, and you suddenly realise how cold it is in the room, the air touching the cooling liquid that’s rubbed off against your skin, and you shiver. “Mm. I think it’s time to clean up. Want me to scrub your back in the shower? I give very good massages.”

Yoonji’s eyes are dark and warm before she presses her nose to your neck, lips soft as they touch the delicate skin of your throat. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

[the-awkward-outlaw]

“ I read your diary. ” or rather journal, when he was sleeping or while he was taking a bath in a secluded area and left his satchel wide open for grabs.

This one’s so damn fluffy, I’m gonna die! It’s also one of those ones that easily could lead to a really smutty scene, but maybe I’ll leave that for another time 👀

Read all my works on AO3

(Maybe if I’m bored enough and actually have some damn time, I’ll make a masterlist on Tumblr) 

Flat Iron Lake gleams orange and blue in the midday sun, flies collecting in swarms hover above the water, begging to be eaten by a hungry fish. You stand on the pier, pole in your hand, hoping to fool one of those fish to take your lure instead of a real insect. So far, you’re having good luck, despite the hot sun above. You know from experience that fishing at any time other than dawn and dusk is spotty, but the fish around this area of the lake seem to always be biting, which is lucky. It saves everyone from having to go far to get meat. 

You love fishing, always have. You’re not the biggest fan of the taste of fish, though you will eat it. You enjoy the act of catching them, though. Fishing forces time to slow down, allows you to just sit and enjoy the peace and quiet, and then there’s the chance that something exciting will happen. Not only that, but the scenery is beautiful. 

As you stand, waiting for something to grab your lure, you hear footsteps on the shore. You turn and see Arthur, his hands on his hips. He smiles at you a bit, but doesn’t say anything. You return it and then go back to watching your bait, feeling a bit self conscious. Although you’re the newest member of the gang, having only been with them a couple of months, you’ve quickly grown fond of Arthur. You like most people in camp (aside from Micah), but Arthur was the one you took to. He’s handsome, smart (though he denies it), funny, loyal and sweet. He thinks he’s nothing more than a big dumb brute capable of nothing but violence, but you’ve seen the side of him that proves him wrong. You saw him give Tilly a necklace a few days ago, he got a book for Jack, and you’ve seen him playing fetch with the newest member, a dog named Cain. You’ve also seen him many times sitting on his cot or at the base of a tree, scribbling away in his journal. 

You’ve wondered many times if Arthur feels anything for you too, but you’re too nervous to ask. You won’t ask the others if he’s mentioned you at all, afraid it’ll clue them in to your crush. You wish, more than anything, that you could get a glimpse in his journal. 

You glance behind you again and spot Arthur sitting at the base of a tree not too far from the pier. His journal’s in his lap and he seems to be writing, or maybe he’s drawing. You wonder if he’s any good. You’ve tried your own hand at drawing with little success. You can barely draw a stick figure. 

You go back to fishing, wishing you could at least gather the courage to go and talk to him. You’ve wanted nothing more than to do that. He helped teach you how to shoot a gun after you first joined, and how to shoot a bow. It was through him that you learned how to hunt and fish, and you overheard him a few days ago talking to Dutch about teaching you how to rob people. You just wish you could talk to him about anything that didn’t involve you learning how to pull your weight in the gang. It’s doubtful that he has any interest in you though, even in an innocent, friendly manner. You sigh, wishing things were different. 

An hour passes and you decide you’re done fishing. You have a decent collection of fish to give to Pearson, he’ll be happy at least. You collapse your pole and begin walking down the pier when you see Arthur, still sat at the foot of the tree, his hat tipped over his eyes. He seems to be sleeping, but next to him is his journal, lying open and just begging to be read. 

You approach him quietly. You really shouldn’t be trying to read his journal, it’d be an invasion of his privacy. Still, you can’t help but be curious. You get a bit closer, waiting for him to stir, but he doesn’t. You quietly set down your bucket of fish and kneel down, picking up his journal. You check on him again, but he still hasn’t moved. You can tell by his slow, heavy breathing that he’s out. 

The first thing you see when looking at the open page of his journal is a sketch. Undeniably, it’s you, fishing on the pier. The sketch extends across both pages. The drawing is beautiful, simple yet detailed. You had no idea he could draw this well. You flip to the previous page and see sketches of a horse (undeniably his own), a husky and a duck. The duck is really no more than an outline, but it’s endearing. The husky is incredibly detailed, its tongue dangling from its panting mouth. You love the detail of the fur, you can tell exactly what color it is based purely on how he’s shaded it. You flip to the next previous page and are startled by an extremely detailed drawing of your face. On the page next to it is a passage he’s written. You study the beautiful, looping words. His writing is gorgeous. You begin to read it. 

“Took Y/N out hunting today. She’s got a natural talent for it, considering she’s only been doing it a few months. If only things were simpler, life wasn’t such a mess, I might ask her to be my girl. Yet damn you, Mary! Y/N ain’t nothing like Mary. She’s sweet, she don’t hold people’s past over their heads or play games with ‘em. When I’m alone with her, I feel like the luckiest man and the biggest fool. If she’s smart, she’ll stay away from me.” 

Your stomach does a backflip. Has he really thought about asking you to be his girlfriend? No way, no way could Arthur, the Arthur Morgan, be interested in you! You’re just a simple girl who grew up on a farm until a few months back when it was burned to the ground, killing everyone inside. You were in the barn when it got destroyed by a group of drunk O’Driscolls. It was only a couple weeks after that you were brought in by Arthur, who found you begging on the trail in the middle of nowhere. 

You flip through more of his journal, reading about how he hopes never to get on Sadie Adler’s bad side (you agree with him), how he detests doing jobs for Strauss. You’re glad he never went to collect that debt from that Downes fellow a few weeks ago. You’d heard rumors he was incredibly sick and you passed that information onto Arthur, who decided it wasn’t worth the risk and just absolved the debt. Still though, he’s doing a few other collections. 

You go on to read about some of the people he’s met, including a blind man who seemed almost like a prophet, a photographer who seemed to be trying to get himself eaten by some wild animal, and a crazy woman touting about dinosaurs. So many of these entries are accompanied with drawing, each one detailed to the point you feel you could touch them. 

Every few pages, he seems to mention you, whether it’s just taking you out somewhere to teach you a new skill, or about how you’ve surprised him with one of your own visions of the world. One in particular stands out to you. It’s accompanied by a sketch of you just standing there, drinking a mug of coffee. The passage itself started off with him talking about one of his debt collections from a woman named Lily Millet. 

“This world is an ugly one, I see it everyday. I see it in the things I do to people, the way they look at me. But Y/N seems to see the beauty of it. Whenever I’m with her, she sees light and color where I would see only violence and horror. The more I’m with her, the more I see the beauty too. If I were smarter, I’d spare her the misfortune of my own company, yet I find hers euphoric. If I weren’t such a coward, I’d ask her on a proper outing. John keeps saying she’s sweet on me, but Marston wouldn’t know the first thing about women. How the hell he ended up having a kid with Abigail is beyond me.” 

You giggle at the last line and then your heart drops when you hear Arthur begin to stir. You quickly flip to the page it was on and throw it on the ground. Unfortunately, it lands a solid foot from where you picked it up and in a different position. You just hope he doesn’t remember those details as you stand up and take several feet back. 

He tilts his hat up, notices you trying to walk away in such a manner that screams you’re guilty of something. He looks down at his journal and notices right away that it’s been moved. He connects your guilty smile and knows instantly that you at least looked at the sketch. Before he can say anything to you, you dart off into the middle of camp to give your fish to Pearson and where he won’t confront you. 

During the rest of the day, you find any excuse you can to stay away from Arthur, positive he’s furious that you invaded his privacy like that. You’d be mad had it been you, and you’re sure he’d like nothing more than to tell you off. However, you often catch him staring at you, but not in anger or disappointment. His eyes say he’s curious, and he doesn’t seem to be pursuing you to get you alone, though he does try to approach you often. You always come up with an excuse or pick up a conversation with the closest person so he can’t confront you. 

After the sun’s set, your luck runs out. Arthur left a few hours ago and you figured he’d be gone the rest of the night. You decided it was safe to go stand at the shores of the lake and look at the stars. You didn’t even hear him approach until he was standing right next to you, a beer bottle in each hand. 

“So,” he said, making you jump. You flushed when you saw him standing so close to you, but then he handed you one of the bottles. You thanked him quietly and looked away. You didn’t see the soft smile he wore. “Enjoy readin’ my journal?” he asks, sipping his beer as he stares off across the lake. 

You sigh. “I’m sorry, Mr. Morgan. It was wrong of me. I understand why you’re upset.” 

He chuckles softly. “Ah, it’s a’right. I ain’t exactly innocent in that myself. Guess I earned it, to be honest.” 

“What do you mean?” 

He rubs his neck nervously. “I, uh, I read your diary too once. It was on your bedroll and I guess Grimshaw snatched you up while you was writin’. I was just passin’ by and saw it, couldn’t help myself.” 

You blush even more. Shit, shit shit! You wrote in there shortly after getting the damn thing that you have a massive crush on Arthur, it’s pretty much a guarantee that he saw it. 

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Morgan,” you say, closing your eyes. 

“For what?” he says, shocked. 

“That you had to read that. I’m… I’m such an idiot and I’m sure it’s the last thing you wanted to know about me. I completely understand if you don’t want to teach me anything else.” 

He turns to face you. He nervously reaches up a hand to tilt your head up to look at him. “Y/N, I know you read my journal. Pretty far back too, I’d guess. If you actually read it, you’d know I’ve… well, I’ve held somethin’ for you too.” 

You smile and take his hand into yours. “I don’t know why you would. I’m nothin’ special.” 

“Maybe you don’t see yourself the way I do.” 

You look up at him again. His face is inches from yours and his eyes dart down to your lips before going back to your eyes again. Is he thinking the same as you? Right now, you’d like nothing more than to kiss him. You start leaning up, you can feel the heat radiating from him. He moves closer, his free hand sliding over your back. Your lips are centimeters from touching. 

“Mr. Morgan, we are in the shit again. Deep in the shit!” the gravelly voice of Reverend Swanson washes over you again. He stumbles over, his eyes bloodshot. Arthur leans away and lets you go, making you let out a soft groan. 

“You got quite a way with words there, Mr. Swanson,” Arthur replies. 

“Words are the least of my problems, Mr. Morgan.” He stammers for a moment, almost as though he’s seeing something you can’t. His eyes refocus on you both standing inches apart, looking irritated. “But I wanted you both to know that you are children of God! Children of God.” He starts mumbling to himself, almost singing.

You chuckle. “That’s sweet, Reverend, but I stopped believing in God a long time ago.” 

“But he has never stopped believing in you,” Swanson says, then he stumbles off. 

Arthur lets out a long sigh and hangs his head so his hat covers his eyes. His cheeks are slightly pink. “Sorry for that interruption, Y/N.” 

“That’s okay, ain’t like we could stop him,” you say. You want to ask him to try that kiss again, but you just can’t manage to get the words out. He’s thinking the same thing, but like you, he’s too embarrassed to ask. Instead, his hand slowly wraps around yours. You look down at your entwined hands and then back up to him and smile. Encouraged by this, he lets your hand go and both of his slide over your back, pulling you close to him. Yours go up to settle on his shoulders. 

Before anyone else has the chance to ruin the moment again, Arthur dips down and presses his lips to yours. His are slightly chapped, but they’re warm. You’ve only imagined kissing him a hundred times, but you didn’t ever do him justice in those daydreams. You move your lips with his, your hand winding behind his neck to pull him even closer. His arms grip you tight, pressing your body against his. Your heart’s pounding in your chest. Something in your chest purrs as he deepens the kiss. Oh, how you’ve wanted this, wanted him. All those moments you spent alone with him, you wanted to kiss him exactly like this. 

After several moments of you studying his lips, he breaks it, his breath leaving in quick bursts. He smiles at you and cups your cheek, his thumb tracing your cheek bone. 

“I hope that was okay,” he says softly. 

“More than okay,” you say and you kiss him again. This one is short and brief, but just as sweet as the previous. You lay your head on his shoulder, your forehead pressed against his neck. His arms embrace you protectively and his heart hammers into your ear. You stare off across the silvery waters of the lake, content in this moment. You want it never to end. 

There’s no way you could know that Arthur, for the first time in a long time, finally thinks he may actually be a somewhat decent man if someone as sweet and good as you chooses to nestle in his arms like this. He kisses the top of your head, wishing he could tell you how grateful and how in awe he is. Perhaps he’ll have to write it in his journal and leave it somewhere that you’ll find it again.

[who-gave-atlas-a-pencil]

Drift and Call it Dreaming

Read on AO3 for notes.

Summary: “Was that a yawn? Are you tired?”

“It’s going on four in the bloody morning. Of course I’m tired.”

(A missing scene from the night an angel and a demon decide to raise the Antichrist.)

---

The night they decide they’re going to raise the Antichrist together, they talk for hours. There’s the conversations before the decision is reached, obviously – something about bananas and fish stew, though the details are too hazy for Aziraphale to remember entirely even after they’ve sobered up – but there’s the discussions afterward too. There’s a considerable amount of logisitics involved in collaborating with one’s archnemesis to prevent the apocalypse, and by 3.17 in the morning, it’s all starting to turn a bit fuzzy. Aziraphale’s head hurts, the low drumming in his temples a sure sign that it is time for him to take a break and read for a moment. Heidi, perhaps. It’s a simple tale and a quick one, but he’s always found it charming.

Across the room, Crowley’s made himself comfortable. He has a knack for that, Aziraphale thinks, a way of making every space his own. It reminds the angel of chameleons he’d seen once on a mission in Brazil, even if he’s reasonably certain that Crowley is categorically incapable of blending in with the scenery. He’s got a degree of panache to him that makes such a thing impossible, a magnetic field of sorts that draws people in, or at least draws in soft angels who should know better than to be so foolishly, recklessly in-

He realises a moment too late that Crowley’s asked him something, that he’s been waiting for an answer while Aziraphale’s been staring like an adoring puppy. His cheeks burn as he pulls his eyes away to settle on a world atlas from the 1940s which sits somewhere behind Crowley’s head and silently thanks the Almighty for the fact that he keeps his bookshop so dimly lit. Then he clears his throat and smiles, blinking. “Sorry, what?”

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “I said, don’t you think it’s about time to call it a night on this Antichrist business? Well. More calling it a morning at this point – why exactly don’t you have any clocks in this entire bookshop?”

“I have one,” Aziraphale protests. “It’s at the front of the store. I don’t need any others, that’s the function of a watch. And in any event, I don’t have to give punctuality a terrible amount of thought usually. I rarely have meetings with anyone other than you, unless someone’s made an appointment.”

“Explains your shop hours. I figured you’d just made them like that to keep anyone from actually being able to come in and buy anything.” Crowley says it with a wry grin, but Aziraphale’s cheeks flush in embarrassment at being discovered and the demon’s eyes widen, his mouth falling open with astonishment. “No.”

Aziraphale fumbles for an excuse. “I never know when head office is going to drop in without notice and require my attention. It’s not as if I can simply pop into the back room and leave the front desk unattended. If anybody requires assistance-”

“You made your hours like that on purpose?”

“Would you want to be around a group of humans when Gabriel drops in?”

“I don’t enjoy being on the same planet when Gabriel drops in.”

“The last time he was here, his idea of subtlety was dreadful. He tried to get me alone by asking me for- for pornography,” Aziraphale says helplessly, feeling his nose scrunch up in distaste. Then Crowley’s spine goes liquid and he’s half-collapsed into the couch with how hard he’s laughing, and try as he might, Aziraphale can’t make himself feel mortified about that.

He presses his lips together and looks away, riding out the symphony of Crowley’s laughter. He realises belatedly that he perhaps shouldn’t have provided the demon with more ammunition to commit sacrilege, but – well. Loath as he is to admit it, Crowley’s always had a point about how little attention their respective head offices tend to pay them as a general rule, and looking at him now, Aziraphale can’t feel too guilty.

It’s nearly three minutes before he completely finishes dying of laughter and straightens himself out again. Crowley dashes tears from the corners of his eyes and sighs, loud and heavy. “Oh, angel,” he says, and shakes his head.

“I’m glad you find this all so terribly amusing,” Aziraphale mutters, only a little crossly. “The entire interaction was completely horrifying.”

“Is there any interaction with Gabriel that isn’t?”

“Crowley.” Aziraphale casts his eyes heavenward and offers a brief apology on the demon’s behalf and redirects the conversation. “Weren’t you saying something important earlier, before all this distraction?”

Crowley waves a hand dismissively. “Nah, probably not. I don’t say important things. I rarely say important things. One of my rules.” His grin is sly and curves across his face with an enticing charm that isn’t entirely fair, and Aziraphale is just about to remark on it when he sees the demon shift slightly and cover his mouth with a hand.

Aziraphale frowns. “Was that a yawn? Are you tired?”

“It’s going on four in the bloody morning. Of course I’m tired.” Crowley tosses one obscenely long leg over the arm of the couch and sprawls across the length of it.

Aziraphale purses his lips and looks away. “I was under the impression that evil never sleeps,” he says, taking great care to keep his tone even.

“Yeah, that was before evil had to gallivant around the whole blessed Earth all through the 14th century,” Crowley retorts, unperturbed. “Anyone would fancy a nap after that.”

“Yes, but. Well. Put simply – Crowley, that was centuries ago. Surely you’re not still tired?”

Crowley shrugs. “Nah. Have gotten used to the sleeping bit, though. ‘S a nice way to pass the time.”

“Virtue is ever vigilant,” Aziraphale parrots without thinking, wincing when Crowley gives him the Look he saves for when he’s said something particularly reminiscent of a boy scout pamphlet. “Well, it is. And besides, why would I sleep? There’s all these books to be read and people can be so peculiar when it’s dark.” He steeples his fingers and leans forward eagerly. “Once, when I was walking around in the middle of winter, I was approached by a gentleman dressed in black who offered to show me something unique – ‘life-changing’ was the phrase he used, I believe. He was quite insistent, but you see, I’d just acquired a first edition Wilde that I’d been reading at a café, so I was in a bit of a rush, but it was still a delightful experience. He was such a lovely young man.”

“It sounds like he was a drug dealer and you’re lucky you didn’t get mugged,” Crowley says, rubbing a hand over his face.

“No,” Aziraphale breathes, shocked. “You don’t really think-?  Oh, dear.” He frowns, shaking his head. “He just seemed so kind.”

“You think everybody seems kind,” Crowley mutters. “Think I’m kind. I have no idea where you get it from.” He shakes his head, and for the fifth time in as many minutes yawns again.

Aziraphale suppresses a frown, eyebrows furrowing slightly as he pointedly refrains from mentioning 1941 and the intact first editions of the prophecy books he keeps in a place of honour near his desk. It’s too late to get into an argument, and even if it wasn’t, well. Any surveillance heaven might be providing doesn’t really need to hear him having a heart to heart with a demon he’s spent the last six thousand years allegedly thwarting. Instead, he clears his throat and glances at his watch. 3:48. “I suppose you do have a point about the time. It is rather late – er, early.” He studies Crowley for a moment. “Are you certain you’re in a fit state to drive?”

“Course I am.” Crowley swings his legs off the couch and blinks for the first time in two hours. “I could drive with my eyes closed and it’d be fine. Probably. Long as I avoid the M25.”

Aziraphale, having driven far too frequently with a completely awake and non-blinded Crowley, shudders at the mental image this suggestion produces. “I think not,” he says shortly, and waves a hand. Atop the back of the paisley couch, a small pile of blankets appears, topped with a dark pillow that looks reasonably comfortable, if not entirely perfect. Crowley stares him down long and hard like he’s waiting for an explanation, and Aziraphale breaks eye contact first as he gives a nervous shrug. “It’d be terribly inconvenient if you discorporated yourself after all this planning. Someone has to counter my influences, yes?”

“Your side wouldn’t be very happy to hear you offering shelter to a demon, I don’t think.” There’s no bite to the way Crowley says it, just an odd, not-quite gentle honesty. “Might be better for both of us to avoid it.”

“Yes, well. Should Gabriel make an entrance similar to his last one, I can assure you I’ll be the first to know.” Aziraphale busies himself with the table of wine bottles, sorting and resorting them without rhyme or reason. “In any event, I’ll be awake reading. I’m certain I’ll see them coming in enough time to allow you a hasty retreat.”

There’s another long silence filled with nothing but the burning sensation of Crowley staring him down. A minute passes. Two.

Crowley’s spine turns to liquid again and he flops back on the couch. “Night driving’s boring anyway,” he says, as if that’s the deciding factor. “Might as well raise Cain here instead of my own place.”

“I’d rather you sleep and leave Cain as he is, thank you.” Aziraphale keeps himself from rolling his eyes and glances over at Crowley. “I’m afraid the arrangement isn’t terribly elegant, but it should suffice for a night.”

“It’ll do,” Crowley says, and tugs a blanket over himself. It’s draped so sloppily over his form that Aziraphale can’t see how it can possibly be doing him any good for insulation, but he refrains from crossing the room to adjust it. Crowley is, after all, six thousand years old. He does not need to be tucked in.

The demon settles himself across the cushions and examines the blanket with a raised eyebrow. “Are those knitted snakes in the pattern? How thoughtful,” he says, a bit drily, and closes his eyes. It’s a good thing, too, because the snakes were decidedly not intentional and Aziraphale can’t quite hide his surprise at the revelation. “Night, angel. Wake me up when the world ends.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widen. “You can’t sleep until the apocalypse, Crowley,” he sputters, but there is no reply. He looks over, and Crowley is breathing evenly, fast asleep in the blink of an eye. It’s almost miraculous how easily he does it, how peaceful he looks with his eyes closed, calm and beautiful like a star that’s falling instead of an angel already fallen.

Aziraphale crosses the room slowly, careful not to disturb him. He picks up the sunglasses that fell to the floor at some point in the evening and folds them up, sets them on the side table. Then, gently, ever so gently, because he won’t forgive himself if he wakes Crowley up from this, he bends over and adjusts the blankets to cover him better. When it’s done, Aziraphale studies him for a moment, taking in the serene expression and the comfortable sprawl of his body across the couch, and he allows himself a small smile as he leans in, just slightly. “You will wake having had a lovely dream about whatever you like best,” he whispers softly, a blessing in the night, and crosses the room to read.

[renaroo]

hi! did bruce ever come to accept that cass DID kill a man or is this something he's still in denial of?

Oh boy, so this is a favorite subject of mine and especially now that we have two continuities to provide comparison for, I’m going to wig out a bit and go for a full deep dive here. My apologies, one and all.

Discussions of murder, child abuse, and suicide under the cut.

New Earth | Pre-Flashpoint Continuity

The simple answer to this is that Bruce learned the truth but rejected the truth and for as far as we were ever given evidence for in all of Batgirl (2000-2006) and all comics after that – minus the OOC “Evil Cass” Saga that everyone agrees to ignore – he basically rejects it without fail. 

Now, one would say that Bruce Wayne objecting to hard evidence on anything is out of character and they’d be right. And, in fact, for Bruce’s subplot throughout Batgirl (2000-2006) that dichotomy actually proved to be one of the leading problems. 

Even when David Cain gives Bruce video evidence of the murder Cass committed as an eight year old child, he is heartbroken but also refuses to accept it no matter how much the evidence stacks up.

[Batgirl (2000-2006) #4]

But, of course, the more he analyzes the tape, the more he looks for signs of tampering or editing, the less he finds, and the more angry he gets at himself for not being able to somehow change the reality of what is happening.

[Batgirl (2000-2006) #4]

This isn’t a new thing for Bruce’s characterization in this era. Earlier that same year in the premiere issue of Batman: Gotham Knights (2000-2006), his “blind spots” were actually the main crux of the issue, as all the evidence pointed toward the son of the two victims being the one who committed the heinous murder, and he spent valuable time and effort, as well as everyone else’s time and effort, trying to find any evidence at all that would prove the truth wrong. To the point that Dick was trying pretty desperately to take the case from Bruce so it wouldn’t bother him so much. 

But even with that case, as as much as it affected Bruce, he ultimately conceded to the evidence. 

Cassandra, though, is personal. And throughout her Batgirl run, Bruce again and again makes comparisons between the two of them. Bruce almost uncharacteristically opens himself up to Cass soon after beginning to work with her. She had be “vetted” by Barbara, easily Bruce’s most trusted ally at the time, had proved herself by saving Bruce’s best friend Jim Gordon, and provided assistance at their darkest hour during the No Man’s Land crisis. But more than any of that, Cassandra was the first person in Bruce’s life who seemed to carry his blind allegiance to the “No Kill” rule that he had. 

And just when Bruce was most confronted with the facts, when he had heard from Cain himself that Cass had blood on her hands, Cassandra proved herself in an act that even Bruce himself would have had difficulty doing as selflessly and heroically as Cass did. She races into gunfire, not dodging a single shot in order to keep a criminal behind her from being taken out by friendly fire. 

And in the process, has a quiet moment that once again shows just how incredibly similar she and Bruce are in their attitudes and mannerisms.

[Batgirl (2000-2006) #6]

And when Bruce asks her about it later, she gives him an answer that seems to help him draw the wool over his eyes all the more, because she couldn’t be so instinctively protective of life like he is if she had ever taken life herself.

[Batgirl (2000-2006) #6]

If Cassandra, who embodies his philosophies and beliefs so much could kill, then that meant that Bruce could kill, and this was at a dark time in Bruce’s life where that very question was something that could have been the end of him, even the suspicion of murder – such as in Bruce Wayne: Murderer?/Fugitive – would tear down everything he believed at its foundation.

But of course, all of this was still a willful delusion on Bruce’s part. Cassandra had killed. Cassandra’s guilt and death wish was because of her past. And just because Bruce came up with any excuse possible to ignore these facts didn’t mean that it wasn’t plain to see for everyone else. 

And thus the main conflict for Bruce in Batgirl (2000-2006) wasn’t really portrayed as him discovering the truth about Cass’ past – he had the evidence for it since the third issue – it was about how his inability to accept it, because of his inability to forgive that fault, fed into Cassandra’s death wish as much as her personal guilt. 

Bruce couldn’t accept the reality of Cass having been used and manipulated to do something so heinously wrong when she was a child, because he couldn’t accept the flaw of his own morality that (at this time in his life) he would not be able to find it in himself to forgive someone he loved and admired so much as a part of his family. His very staunch black-and-white worldview was shaped in a way that it made it simpler for him to put criminals away and to see willing killers as deserving of punishment without nuance was at odds with the girl he had adopted as his own who very much was born as evidence of the world’s shades of gray.

But Bruce wasn’t Cass’ only parental figure. In fact, Barbara Gordon was a far bigger influence at this time and Babs was someone with a far more nuanced outlook. And also someone who believed not only that Cass had been haunted by this crime, but was someone who wanted Cass to learn how to forgive herself for something that wasn’t ultimately her fault. Barbara knew that Cass needed to see from her mentors that she could be forgiven before she could really forgive herself, and as long as Bruce wasn’t budging, she was going to continue on her path of self destruction. This frightened and angered Barbara because she couldn’t force Bruce to believe and forgive, even as the time of the death-by-Shiva was approaching. 

Without getting too much into it, I’ll just say that this sentiment is very similar to the helplessness one feels with being familiar with the signs of someone becoming increasingly suicidal, but incapable of pressing others in the loved ones’ life to open their eyes and see the danger for themselves – to accept that there is a problem so that they can then begin to help heal and fix and forgive for it.

This comes to a head in Batgirl (2000-2006) #23 when Barbara tries one last time to wake Bruce up to the reality of it while Cass prepares for her final fight.

[Batgirl (2000-2006) #23]

Honestly, #23 is probably one of the most underrated issues of the entire series and… while the subject material is dark it’s vital to really understanding what the first third of the run was even about. 

There’s an element of Bruce’s denial that is a bit self serving. He doesn’t want to see what’s wrong with Cass’ behavior or her suicidal behavior – her death wish – because it requires him to defend a fundamental flaw of his own philosophies and beliefs. It requires him to really confront how he’s capable of forgiving criminals who have more identifiable motives and, often, mental illness, but is much stricter and less forgiving of the people he loves most and has the highest expectations of. Usually people whose mental illness and trauma aren’t as easily identified. 

It confronts the mindset of valuing any belief system over the circumstances of reality. And Bruce, until he goes through this himself and forgives himself in Bruce Wayne: Murderer?/Fugitive can’t begin to accept what it would mean for Cassandra. 

But, for reasons that many can fannishly extrapolate on, Barbara can. and it’s fortunate that she can because Cass surviving, Cass being reborn after what is for all intents and purposes a failed suicide attempt, it was Barbara who let her know that her life was still valuable, that her sins and burdens were not beyond forgiveness or made her undeserving of love. That no fault would make Barbara love her less.

[Batgirl (2000-2006) #25]

Cass’ victory in this moment is actually also Barbara’s love as a parent winning as well. Because sometimes putting aside long held beliefs and traversing into new territory to adapt to the grayness of reality is the only real way to be moral in life.

And it’s because Babs showed Cass the way that Cass is able to finally accept herself and see outside herself enough to recognize that same tendency, that same crushing death wish in her opponent as well and ultimately give Shiva the gift of living past a death wish as well.

[Batgirl (2000-2006) #25]

This is just an amazing powerful moment and for obvious reasons can effect many people very differently. This tone, this strangely optimistic story about conquering the shadow of death after it haunts you for all of your life, was one of the most important comics I personally had ever read. And because of that it means a lot to me. I like that there were so many layers to Cass’ feelings, to the reactions of the people around her, and how sometimes those people around her failed her without ever even realizing it. 

And in a way, Bruce did fail Cass in this respect. And it’s because of that that I think a lot of people don’t come away from Batgirl feeling it lines up well with any Batman they know. In a sense, yeah, it feels pretty damning for him to have never accepted the danger Cass was putting herself in, to never fully accept it as something he could change or even that he could contribute to. 

But that’s a sad reality. And in 2003? It would have been all too easy for a parent to write off suicidal teenagers as something that was completely outside of their control, and as much as that angers me today in hindsight, I can’t say that such mistakes would ever singularly make someone a completely terrible person. 

We never get evidence that Bruce accepted the truth later in the series or beyond. And I do think that’s a dangling plot thread that works against the overall “score” of Cass’ Batgirl series as there were quite a few plots that were left aside unceremoniously. But I can also argue that it was something that was left behind because they didn’t think it held any narrative purpose after presenting the “wrong” way someone handles other people’s suicidal feelings. Batgirl is Cass’ story, and Bruce being able to accept the truth for himself once Cass moved past it could have been part of her story, too, but it was still mostly a Bruce story. And it was never brought up in his own series again.

Not to say that Bruce didn’t…. evolve on those thoughts over the years anyway. Just. Not in regards to Cass. Just in regards to Damian and David and…. Selina in hindsight. Comics are weird, and this drop off of this narrative point also marked a lot of change up in Editorial and Writing for the Bat Books that would take us down a path to War Games so saying that we weren’t going to be getting much nuance on the subject is putting it lightly.

Prime Earth | DC Rebirth Continuity

Cass is a really different character based purely on her origins alone in this because a fundamental change was made that... kind of took a lot of power out of Cass’ original death wish by some’s measure, and moved us beyond years of idealizing a teenager’s depression and mental illness in others. It will really depend on what side of the fence you land on for how you feel about either.

Cassandra’s murder was not a nameless mobster here but instead one of her best friend’s mothers, Miranda Row. She also has a mission before she joins the Batfamily of her own volition, one specifically handed to her by Bruce who knows she was Miranda Row’s murderer from the start. 

Bruce’s acceptance of Cass’ past sin is actually the main crux of their relationship in this version and isn’t at all independent of the very real fact that Cass hasn’t been given a mother figure in all of this, there is no Barbara who will play opposite to Bruce’s approaches to Cass’ struggles and past. Therefore the narrative doesn’t have the freedom to explore how different approaches to raising a child with these conditions, especially an adopted child, and so Bruce has to be good and accepting of Cass or else the narrative is just needlessly mistreating someone without giving them any relief or help. To avoid that, both Bruce and Cass have a lot of those layers removed and the story is streamlined. 

Bruce isn’t only accepting of Cass’ past, he is actively encouraging her to move past it and maybe even give up vigilantism and violence as a way to reclaim herself.

....

While simultaneously reminding her that Miranda Row will never come back? But at least Harper forgave her? 

.... Batman and Robin Eternal was a mess.

[Batman and Robin Eternal (2015-2016) #26]

You can sort of see the editors and writers desperate to sidestep subjects they don’t want to deal with but also wanting complexities and so... never... really threading that needle.

But since Bruce never really ignores or avoids her past and her faults, that need for Cass to internalize her guilt and to exile herself from the basic joys of life doesn’t really exist either. If he accepts her openly and acknowledges her past, Cass knows that her idol will love her despite her flaws without a blanketed, irrefutable moment like we got between Cass and Barbara in Batgirl (2000-2006) #25.

Un...less we randomly have it anyway?

So. Starting with the relaunch of Detective Comics in Rebirth, we have the mandatory team-gathering issue where Bruce gives his analysis of all the recruits one by one and it includes a moment about Cass over the backdrop of her saving children from a human trafficking ring -- this is notable only because that seems to be the only thing Tynion ever has Cass doing on her own, busting up these rings, but it’s also never commented on and we’re never told how she tracks these down and whether it’s something she dedicates herself to as it has something to do with her past under Mother and that child trafficking. Tynion likes to... not get too far into the subjects he brings up. Which is again a bit at odds with how the old Cass went.

And in this overview Bruce is giving Kate about Cass he.... remarks that she’s the most dangerous fighter he knows which. Seems to go back on his previous reactions to her where it was all about how he believed in her and saw past her one sin and knew how good she was, enough so he trusted her to run interference while he... self-amnesiaed himself for the majority of BaRE. 

[Detective Comics (2016-present) #934]

This also leads to some questionable choices on how they present Cass’ internal struggles. Because she’s been forgiven, she isn’t isolating herself willingly or unwillingly anymore, and she’s already confronted the murder she committed and received resounding forgiveness from Harper (and notably no one writing cares about Cullen’s feelings on the matter hmmm) who regularly pals around with her now like nothing happened. 

So it’s confusing when the only arc which has centered around Cass so far tells us that she’s... drowning in guilt and that she’s desperate to figure out why Batman believes in her. Even though... we know as readers that he.... doesn’t necessarily believe in her all that much. 

[Detective Comics (2016-present) #950]

I should note that none of this is really resolved by the end of this particular arc. she just. Learns that she doesn’t have to fight alone because she has the family behind her and she gives her declaration to Shiva that “I am not less, I am MORE.” so. What I’m saying here is there’s some confusion and a lack of cohesion in what they want to do with Cass here.

They’re not comfortable with tackling a teenage girl’s suicidal tendencies and, really, that’s more than understandable. I wouldn’t want any writer to tackle a subject that important without having a full vision and lots of comfort in doing so. Even the original take with Cass, which benefited from having different circumstances and an editorial team that allowed for Cass to have two mentors to balance things out with, was far from perfect and Bruce’s part in the relationship is a key example of that. 

In New Earth, Bruce never had to fully confront how he was wrong in his approach with Cass, or the fact that it almost cost his adopted daughter her life. Somewhat ironically, Batgirl (2000-2006) was often limited by its failure to sum up the points of its more complicated perspective and storytelling into exact words. The lessons could be missed. 

But in Prime Earth, we have the broad outlines of a relationship dynamic that doesn’t really match up with the text it keeps providing us with, or how they strive for that perilous tone that was known in Cass’ original series, without wanting to dive into the greater themes and struggles. This is a limitation of wanting to hit those notes without focusing hardly any published page time on Cass and her story. These things will only become more and more noticeable as time goes on and we’re continuously sold this idea of growth and relationships without Tynion’s team actually dedicating the time to them. 

So, that’s my summation of the whole thing! Sorry for going a little extra on it lol I appreciated the question a lot.

[the-british-pineapple]

Valkyrie and Skulduggery for short story writing :)

Notes: This takes place before the events of Mortal Coil.Words: 1564Also if anyone wanted to draw anything from this please do, I’d love to see some interpretation. Feedback is greatly appreciated.

Skul andVal

Valkyrie sat on the swing set by herself waiting forSkulduggery to show up. He had asked to meet her here, she didn’t know why shejust knew it was urgent, so she waited. Car after car pulled up and subsequentlyleft leaving her wondering if Skulduggery forgot about her, again. He once lefther in a biker bar after leaving to grab some “fresh air” which was somethingshe didn’t know skeletons needed. The Sun was dipping low over the horizon, thechill was beginning to set in, but she couldn’t feel it thanks to the clothesGhastly made for her. It was starting to get dark and she didn’t want to leaveher reflection alone for too long, plus she was feeling hungry and couldn’twait for dinner. Valkyrie got up from the swing set and started her walk home.

“Excuse me, where do you think you’re going?” Said a voicefrom behind her. She turned around and saw a figure standing tall and slimsilhouetted against the sunlight.

“You’re a dick.” Valkyrie responded with no hint of sarcasm.

“What do you mean? Last time I checked I was a skeleton anda detective so I guess I’m a skeleton detective, oh and I’m also a sorcerer sothat makes me a skeleton-detective-sorcerer and I’m also a gentleman so I guessI’m a skeleton-detective-sorcerer-gentleman…. But maybe not in that order.” Heresponded, Valkyrie could only imagine him smirking whilst he said that.

“Nope, you’re a dick. A gentleman dick in fact. The worstkind of dick.” She fired back, still slightly pissed.

“Fair enough, I mean I am but I see no reason for you to becalling me such profanities.” He said leaning against the bar on the swing set.

“Ok, just of the top of my head you’ve left me here forhours. I texted you when I got here and you never responded so I sat on theswing set by myself like I was in some foreign film dealing with my internalstruggles of being too French orwhatever!”

“Too French?” Skulduggery questioned.

“I don’t know, I don’t watch foreign films.” She saiddefensively.

“It shows”, Skulduggery said under his breath, Valkyrie shothim a look that spelled something along the line of ‘if you don’t stop talking I will rip your head off and use it as abowling ball’. “I mean yes I am a dick. But you really can’t blame me, Iwas lost in a dimension where time was irrelevant, where Gods used me as theirplay things where each day I would get ripped apart and have to put myselftogether again. So sorry for being a tad late.”

“You do notget to use the “Alternate-Dimension-Card” this time.” Valkyrie said.

“Of courseI can, it was traumatic.” Skulduggery replied matter-of-factly.

“Last weekyou used it so you didn’t have to go on the mission and track down that guy whokept making fountains and taps squirt out custard instead of water and a fewdays before that you used it to get out of helping the Sanctuary contain theprison break.”

“It was allunder control they didn’t need me.”

“Thecustard guy was one of the guys who escaped…”

“A merefault on my part but remember, giant Gods ripped me apart, bone by bone. Soit’s ok.”

“NoSkullduggery it’s not,” Valkyrie pleaded but Skulduggery stood quietly.“Nothing I say will change what you do will it?

“No it willnot. I thought you knew this by now.”

“I mean Ido but we’ve been at this whole saving the world thing for a while, I thought Imight have some sway in what you do.” Valkyrie said, her sentence trailing off.

“My dearValkyrie of course you, you just don’t realise it yet.”

“Crypticbut slightly assuring. Classic. Anyway, this getting slightly too sentimentalfor my liking, so why did you ask me out here?”

“Well yousee—” Skulduggery’s words were interrupted by a flash of light and faintbuzzing sound. “Ah, impeccable timing as usual.”

“What’sthis?”

“Oh, you’llsee.” Skulduggery replied with what sounded like a cheesy grin. The buzzing inthe air got louder, almost electric. Another flash of light shone, this time brighterand for longer. Suddenly the air ripped itself apart and a man fell through andlanded on his face with a muffled grunt. The bag slung over his shoulderclanged as he fell as if it were full of pots and pans. He stood up wiping dirtfrom his face and picking up various knick-knacks he dropped, the hole behindhim closed, sealing away another world or time. The man’s hair was black andslicked back, he had a bit of stubble and was quite short for his height, helooked around trying to gather his bearings. The sun had almost completely setand the long shadows kept Skulduggery and Valkyrie out of his sight.

“Who isthis guy?” Valkyrie asked in hushed tones.

“Shh, I don’tthink he realises weare here.” Skulduggery replied, cocking his head in interest.

“Who is he?” Valkyrie asked again a little more aggressively.

“His name is Jarred, he’s not magical in anyway but somehowhe got tangled up in magical affairs. He took an interest and has become atrader on the black market. He steals, bribes and charms his way through life,selling to the magical and non-magical. We’ve been sent to stop him.”Skulduggery said keeping his eyes on Jared at all times.

“You really couldn’t have told me this through a text?”Valkyrie asked.

“I mean sure, but this is more interesting, I want to seehow you handle this.”

“What do you mean?”

“I need you to bring him in.” Skulduggery said leaning closeand giving her a strong nudge. Valkyrie stumbled forward into the ever-fleetingsunlight and caught Jared’s eye.

“Who are you?” His voice was weighed down by a thickAustralian accent. Valkyrie shot a look back to where Skulduggery was standing,trying to express her anger but he was gone. She was alone, again. She turnedback to Jared and did her best to improvise.

“My name is Valkyrie Cain and I’m with the Sanctuary. Youare…. under arrest…. I guess.”

“The Sanctuary? You got to be bloody joking. I just escapedyou lot.” Jared said, slightly annoyed more than anything.

“You gotta come with me.” Valkyrie said sternly.

“Yeah, I hear what you are saying but I’m gonna have to respectfullydecline, I need to be somewhere you see and if I don’t get there…well it won’tbe pretty.” He said as if he could talk his way out of the situation.

“I’m afraid you don’t really have a choice.” She held up herhand and ignited a fireball.

“Ah elemental. Nice, I got just the thing.” He fumbled inhis bag, metal clanging against metal and the odd sound of a dog toy wasfollowed by Jared pulling out a spherical object that had various engravings.He twisted it and the top half turned, clicking every few degrees it rotated.He let go and It sprung back to it’s original shape, releasing a wave of paleblue energy outwards. Valkryrie’s fireball puffed out with a wisp of smoke. Sheclicked her fingers trying to reignite the fire but nothing happened.

“What did you do?” She demanded.

“I actually have no clue, I stole this of this warlordlooking guy and I heard it was good against you types. Never needed to use ittil now.”

“You dick.” Valkyrie snarled. She ran forward hurlingherself towards him. Jared quickly reach into his pocket and pulled out whatlooked like a lighter. But when he triggered the spark a bright light flowedforward, blinding Valkyrie. She stumbled forward waving her arms around tryingto connect with anything to grab her bearings. She could hear his faintwhimpers every time he dodged her flailing arms.

“Just give up already darl’. There’s nothing you can do, you’realone.”

“That isn’t entirely true.” Said Skulduggery. Valkyrie heardhim cock his gun, presumably it was pointed at Jared’s head. “One move and youwon’t have a face, not that you are good looking or anything. Your faceliterally serves no purpose, aside from letting you see, taste and smell Iguess. I mean you could live without it and you wouldn’t be any uglier is whatI’m trying to say. But I’m sure you like your stupid face don’t you?”

“Y-yes.” Jared stammered.

“Hey Val, you ok?” Skulduggery asked.

“Yeah, I’m fine, my vision and powers are returning…slowly”She said, she was blinking furiously trying to get her vision back faster. Shecould just make out the silhouettes of Skulduggery and Jared.

“Is your vision good enough for you to knock out Jared?”

“Oh you bet.” Valkyrie said, smirking.

“Wait wh-“. Whatever Jared was going to say was cut short bya clean right hook and probable broken jaw. He sprawled out on the dirt as ifhe passed out drunk.

“Good job.” Skulduggery said with a tone of pride.

“Yeah no thanks to you.” She replied.

“I helped, I held the gun to his head and everything. I evencalled him ugly.”

“You did alright, just cuff him and let’s go. I’m ready tosleep.”

[faegal04]

Now I’m Found

Summary: Your relationship with Dean after he is cured from being a demon

Pairing/Characters: Dean x reader, Sam Winchester, Cas, Cain, Crowley

Author: Amy

Word Count: 3289

Warnings: Violence and swearing

A/N: Here is the second part to Hide Now! Enjoy!

“Daddy’s home, sweetheart!” Dean growled from the open doorway. He stalked into the room, chest heaving he grabbed you by your ponytail and began dragging you out into the hallway.

“P-Please, stop! Dean, don’t do this!” you begged, hands going up to grab his hand at the last minute reaching for the doorway to try to stop him. With a painful yank though, he pulled you through the opening.

Fear ran through your body, your legs kicking and flailing as you grabbed at his hand. Adrenalin made you fight against the inevitable, Dean was going to kill you. You pleaded, begged, screamed at him, just wanting him to stop for a minute. The path he was on would be disastrous for everyone involved, strangely though, you were only concerned with what it would do to him, once he was himself again.

Sam was yelling as he ran through the bunker, trying to get to you, because he knew too that if Dean followed through with his plan, he would not survive it once cured. “Dean! Please stop! Let me help you.”

“Why do you goody-goody’s think I need or want help?!” Dean spat.

The twists and turns in the hallway let you know that he was taking you to his bedroom. Sam was close, you could hear his steps as he raced to get to you. Suddenly Dean stopped moving, you scrambled to your feet, his hand still gripped tightly in your hair. Sam was standing before Dean holding Ruby’s knife.

Dean let go of your hair, but quickly wrapped his arm around your neck, pulling you closer and in front of him, using you as a shield. He turned his head and started kissing down your jawline, he could feel himself getting hard as he was pressed against you, whether it was your fear of him that was turning him on or just being near you again but he decided he needed more. He noticed Sam step forward out of the corner of his eye and he growled.

“Dean, I don’t want to do this. Stop now, let us help you,” Sam pleaded.

“You couldn’t do this even if you wanted to, Sammy. You’ve always been the weak one. Following everyone who would even offer you a crumb of attention. Pathetic!” Dean said with a smirk. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a little unfinished business with Y/N here.”

You squeezed your eyes shut for a second, your heart racing, shaky breaths escaping between your lips. You opened your eyes again found Sam staring at you and you flicked your eyes down towards his waist, where he had his gun then back to his eyes again. “Do it,” you said in a broken whisper.

“Now, now sweetheart. Did I say you could speak?” Dean murmured against your hair.

“Sam, shoot me now!” you sobbed. You knew if he shot you the bullet would travel through you into Dean and that the devil’s trap carved into the bullet would hold Dean still, and he could either finish the cure or kill him with the knife.

Sam shook his head once and stepped forward with the knife again, this time close enough to put the blade to Dean’s throat. “Let. Her. Go.” Sam growled.

Dean smiled, kissed the side of your head and let go of you. Without taking his eyes off of Dean, Sam grabbed you and pulled you behind him. Dean pressed forward, the blade cutting into his throat slightly. “C’mon Sammy, I still want to rip your throat out. The big question though is- will this knife still work on me? All the purified blood you’ve been injecting in me, was what let me break free to begin with. Am I demon enough to be killed with this. Tick, tock.”

Sam’s arm started to shake, his anxiety getting the better of him as Dean pushed forward again, making the two of you take a step back. Dean slowly raised his arm that he had kept behind his back, the hammer flashing as he went to swing it at Sam’s head, when suddenly strong arms gripped Dean around the chest holding his arms down. Dean struggled briefly, his eyes flashing black, an inhuman growl escaped his lips.

Cas, growled eyes filling with blue light as his grace worked to keep Dean still. “It’s over, Dean. It’s over.”

Cas got Dean back to the dungeon, once back inside the devil’s trap, instead of the spelled cuffs, they used chain and rope to bind him to the chair. You stood in the doorway watching over holding the demon knife. You knew Sam was still worried that you wouldn’t be able to use it, but if Dean broke free again, you would kill him even if it killed you.

Sam got the last injection ready and as Dean stirred, Sam quickly plunged it into his arm and stepped back. Dean let out a roar and his eyes flickered onyx as he tried to hold onto the last of the demon strength, his head finally dropped down. You took a shaky step forward and Sam inhaled sharply.

“Did we kill him?” you whispered.

“No, you didn’t kill me, sweetheart,” came the gruff reply. He lifted his head slowly and stared at you, his beautiful emerald green eyes staying the same. “What do you say, Sammy, you wanna let me out of these?”

“Yeah, Dean, sure. God, it’s good to see you. Are you okay?” Sam asked carefully releasing his brother.

“I think I should be asking you guys that.” Dean said sheepishly. “Guess, I was kind of a dick, huh?”

“To put it mildly Dean, yes you were the embodiment of the popular term used for male genitalia,” Cas said.

Sam laughed, and you couldn’t hide the grin that for the first time in a long time felt natural. Even Dean let out a chuckle and that sound went straight to your heart. Sam was working on freeing his legs when Dean spoke again, “So, still have this thing,”  he motioned to the mark on his arm.

“We’ll find a way to get rid of it. I didn’t cure you just to let the mark have you,” Sam said.

Dean nodded and stood from the chair and walked to the edge of the devil’s trap. You, Sam and Cas waited with bated breath for him to step over it. You didn’t even realize that you had back up, holding the knife up in front of you. He stepped over the edge and Sam smiled and embraced his brother in a huge one armed hug. Dean returned the hug, and his eyes automatically found yours, like they had thousands of times before. He released his brother and walked towards you quickly, holding his arms out.

“Sweetheart.”

“Stop! Don’t come any closer,” you said voice wavering. Tears were filling your eyes and it felt like the world was closing in on you. It felt like there was a boulder sitting on your chest and that you couldn’t draw air into your lungs.

“Babe, please,” Dean said as gently as he could.

“Stay away from me!” you yelled before running from the room.

“Dean, just giver her some time, she’s uh-” Sam started say.

Dean shook his head and drug one hand down his face. “Stop. She’s terrified of me.” His shoulders drooped and he wondered how he was going to get you back.

__________________________________________

One Month Later

While you had missed her, listening to Charlie say that there was a “good her” and a “bad her” running around, was making your head spin and wonder if all that time in Oz had short circuited her brain. Like it was normal to have a friend that went to Oz of all places. You rolled your eyes and tried to bring your attention back to the only real female friend that you had. Dean came back in the room and sat right next to you, making you tense up, inadvertently.

You knew he was “him” again, you were just having a hard time adjusting. He had been trying so hard to win you back. He was trying to take care of himself so that the mark didn’t get out of control, eating right, getting enough rest, and he hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol. That didn’t stop the nightmares you had been having since his body had gone missing seven weeks ago.

Those nightmares were always about him finding you and doing all the things he said he would once he got his hands on you. The sex stuff you had no problem with, but the violence was where you had to draw the line. A girl had to have standards after all. You knew it had to hurt him when Sam was the only one who could calm you from the dreams.  When you noticed his shoulders slump down at you flinching and his hands were clenching and unclenching, you made the decision to reach out to him for the first time since he had gotten the mark.

Dean held his breath when he noticed your hand shaking as it was, reached for his, he didn’t want to make a move because he was afraid you would bolt from the room. When your fingers laced with his and squeezed gently, Dean felt calmer than he had in months. The rage he felt simmering all the time was currently muted by this simple touch. Dean knew he loved you more than anything and he was more determined than ever to get rid of this mark.

Sam was watching the both of you from across the room and he smiled softly hating to have to break up the first tender moment the two of you had shared, but he needed to get you focused on Charlie again. He cleared his throat gently, and Dean looked up feeling guilty as he followed Sam’s eye movement towards Charlie. He nodded gently brought his attention the red haired woman he had come to love like a little sister.

“Okay, let me get this straight. There’s two of you. One good, one bad. And the dick you is like a ninja?” Dean said looking a little confused.

“Basically, yes. There’s two of me, but we’re connected physically. You hurt her….” Charlie dropped off.

“You hurt her and you get hurt, right?” Sam said. The three hunters grimaced at Charlie’s nod.and at the sound of the Impala pulling up outside of Clive Dillon’s house made you all stand.

“Looks like evil you finally figured out that old Clive has the last known key to Oz,” Dean said gruffly. He stood up and headed for the door. “I’ll keep you-her-fuck, dick Charlie outside, try to get this yahoo to talk.”

“Dean, remember you hurt her and our Charlie gets hurt,” Sam said.

Dean nodded and headed outside. Once Dean left the room, Charlie confronted Clive and found that the only way to get back to Oz was to summon the wizard. Clive had admitted to having the key used on him to unlock his dark half as well and the only way to ensure his presence was if “good” Clive was mortally injured.

Once the wizard made his appearance, Charlie began bleeding from the mouth and bruises started showing up on her, she fell to her knees, gasping. You tried to rush over to her, but the wizard threw you into a wall and was going after Sam when Charlie screamed in pure agony as her arm was snapped. Clive handed Charlie the gun and nodded to her, the only way to stop the madness was to kill him. She whispered I’m sorry as she pulled the trigger and laid down cradling her arm.

You jumped up and ran outside to where Dean was currently beating “bad” Charlie without mercy.

“DEAN! You’re killing her! Stop it!” you screamed at him, grabbing your gun from your waistband and holding it on him.

He froze in place, when he heard the gun being cocked and he shook his head, bringing his bloodied fists up, looking confused as to how they got that way, when Sam laid Charlie down next to herself, and then Dean looked at you and noticed that you were crying and shaking. The terror was back on your face and he knew that everything that had been gained back was gone and the mark flared briefly turning his thoughts to rage once more.

___________________________________

Two Months Later

You pulled up in front of the bunker, nervous about being back here. Sam had tried to convince you to stay, but leaving was the only thing you could do. Dean was losing himself to the mark more and more everyday. God knows you tried to stay, but after Charlie, you were too frightened. At first Dean had tried to convince you that he was fine, but you knew him better than anyone.

Now that you had found out that Cain was killing all of his descendants and had basically given into the madness of the mark, you had to come tell the boys. You jumped when the door opened of the bunker opened revealing Dean who was carrying a bag.

“Y/N? What are you doing here? Are you okay sweetheart?” Dean dropped the bag and grabbed your hands gently.

You couldn’t quite hide the shock that his voice was so gentle and the look in his eyes was the same as every time he had told you he loved you. You nodded your head and tears filled your eyes, even after two months of being gone you still loved him with everything in your soul. All you wanted in that moment was to feel his arms around you and feel his lips on yours again.

He brought a hand up to cup your cheek, “Babe, come on, talk to me, you’re scaring me.” The only thing you could do was turn your head and softly kiss his roughened palm.

“I never should have left, but we can talk about that later. I need to tell you something. It’s about Cain,” you said.

“I know. That’s where we are headed now, I have to fight him. I have to end this. It’s my fault that it got this bad,” Dean quietly said. “I would rather you stay here, just in case this goes south though. I need to know you’re safe.”

You shook your head, “Really, Winchester, I just came to my senses about leaving you once, that isn’t happening again.”

Dean nodded tentatively, his memory going to the night that Cain told him what would happen if he took the mark.

“First, you’ll kill the girl you love, and while that may hurt you a lot, you won’t be finished not by a long shot. Next, the angel-now that one will hurt more than the loss of her love. Finally, the one that you won’t survive will be when you kill your brother. Are you sure the mark is worth it Dean? To kill everyone who loves you. That’s what it does, you know. It smothers all the good in you and leaves behind this burning rage,” Cain said smugly.

His attention brought back to the present when you waved a hand in front of his face. “Is this all the weapons we’re bringing?” you said lifting the bag that Dean had dropped.

Dean nodded, “Crowley is going to meet us there with the blade. Look when this goes down you have to stay outside the barn. I can’t risk you being inside, you would be a liability. You understand right?”

Once everything was loaded into Baby, the four of you left for the farm of one of the last known family members to Cain. The trip didn’t take nearly as long you had thought. Nervous energy filled the interior of the car, as you all went about the tasks that would help this evening be a success or a complete failure.

“Sam, come here for a minute,” Dean said with a slight tremor in his voice. “I need to know that you will finish this no matter what comes out of the barn. And I need to know that no matter what, you will take care of Y/N. She’s going to need one of us, Sam and to be totally honest here, I’m scared.”

“I have no bloody problems stopping whatever comes out of that barn, squirrel. No worries there,” Crowley said with a sneer.

“It’s time,” Cas said as he ran up to where Sam, Dean and Crowley stood.

Dean nodded and walked out of sight, no sense in spooking Cain to the point where he decimated everyone else. He walked over to where he had asked you to wait, he didn’t even want to speak as you found out when he placed a finger against your lips when you tried to talk. He just needed to feel the calm and peace that had been missing from his life since you walked out. The next few minutes were tense while he waited for the signal from Sam that they were ready for him, when the low whistle was heard, you grabbed his hand and walked with him to the entrance of the barn. Crowley handed the blade off to Dean and he took a step forward, only to have you pull him back and whisper into his ear, “I love you.” He shuddered and walked towards the fight of his life.

The barn doors slammed shut behind Dean and the four most unlikely people in the world  to ever show a united front waited. It seemed like time stood still and yet you knew it had only been minutes. The sounds of fighting were getting louder and sounding more vicious, you found yourself jumping at every little sound.

Suddenly the doors flew open and you caught a glimpse of Dean laying on the ground and Cain was picking up the First Blade. “NO!” you screamed, running into the barn.

“Dean, Dean, Dean. Let me save you now. You are living my story only in reverse. You remember what I told you right,” he looked to where you were standing just inside the door.

Dean followed his eyes to see you and his heart stopped beating. He jumped to his feet and ran back into the devil’s trap with Cain. Dean rushed at Cain, but the original holder of the mark was stronger. He picked Dean up with one hand by his throat. Dean looked down and caught the glimpse of a knife in Cain’s coat, he kicked out with one leg and caught Cain in the knee.

Cain dropped him at the same time, Dean grabbed the knife and fell to the floor. Standing quickly, Dean held the knife out and charged again. Both men met with a clash of metal and then in a moment of pure rage, Dean threw the knife from him as he grappled with Cain over the blade.

He heard Sam yell and then Cain began laughing sinisterly and time slowed down for Dean Winchester. Dean looked over to where Sam was running and saw you standing there, pale and shaking, his heart knocking as you gasped and blood came out of your mouth, first a trickle and then it began to pour. His gaze slid down your body to see the knife handle sticking from your chest and your t-shirt soaking with your blood. His rage took over again at watching you fall to your knees and he saw the light leaving your eyes and knew Cain had been right all along.

“First, you’ll kill the girl you love…”

[hekate1308]

Irony

Denial ain’t just a river, kids, and I’m in so deep I am basically drowning. Enjoy!

“It says it will bring back “The One who has done the most for you”, Dean! This could be our shot!”

“Sammy, I know you want Mom back, and trust me, I do too, but –���

Dean bites his lip.

“We don’t know she’s all that will return to our universe. Lucifer’s out there – “

“And so is Mom”.

Dean sigs and turns to their freshly revived and now human friend.

“Cas, what do you think?”

“There’s a great risk involved” he says simply, “And we shouldn’t forget...”

He trails off. Dean nods.

“Crowely offed himself so Lucifer wouldn’t come back, and we’re trying to open the portal again.”

“No, we’re not; we’re just dragging someone out”.

His brother won't take no for an answer, as Dean well knows, and he will do it on his own if he doesn't get what he wants.

So he acquiesces while trading worried glances with Cas.

Sam has been on saving Mom mode for months now, ever since Dean, reeling from the loss of Cas (and, as he much later admitted to himself, Crowley as well, just a little bit) had done away with the spawn of Satan.

At least Cas came back to life pretty quickly. They still think Chuck had something to do with it.

At least this might bring them closure, if nothing else.

So as Sam finishes the spell in an abandoned warehouse not far from the bunker, both Dean and Cas are holding angel blades, just in case.

There’s a bright flash; the portal opens once again; they hear the thump of a body on the floor; and when they can see again –

They watch Crowley jump up, obviously fuelled by adrenaline.

“What the – “ Sam begins in the same moment Dean moves forward.

Because the shock on Crowley’s face makes two things very clear:

One, he is as human as Cas.

And two, he’s just realizing that as the weight of everything he did as a demon comes crashing down.

Dean’s just in time to prevent him from crashing down on the floor again.

“Ugh. Guys, a little help? Dude’s not exactly a light weight”.

Cas is at their side in an instant; Sam needs a moment longer.

“Something must have gone wrong with the spell” he mutters as they carry Crowley to the car. He’s semi-conscious but unaware of them, babbling to himself with a Scottish accent Dean is pretty sure must have sounded right when he was human, but is all but ineligible nowadays.

“Sam...” he begins, unsure of how to voice his suspicion that the spell did exactly what it’s supposed to do, because if you compare what they’ve been through over the years...

He meets Cas’ eyes and realizes he understands too.

“So which hospital are we taking him to?” Sam asks once they’ve buckled him into the car. He’s silent now, but shaking all over.

“What?”

“Dean, we can’t very well – “

“Why? Guy’s got nothing, Sam. No ID, no insurance, hell, his meat suit might still be on the missing persons’ list, and what do we do then? No, he’s coming to the bunker”.

“But –“

“Sam” he says, tired of pretending that he hasn’t been grieving just a tad for the demon in the last few months because he knew his brother wouldn’t understand, “We’re taking him with us. He offed himself for us, for crying out loud!”

Crowley flinched at that.

“Sorry man” Dean mumbled, awkwardly squeezing his shoulder, “It’s all going to be okay.”

He has no idea if that’s true, but it’s the only thing to say.

“Cas? Can you look after him in the back?”

Their friend nods. He knows exactly what it means to suddenly become human.

And so does Dean. And Dean knows even more than Cas in this special situation, because he’s the one who turned back human after becoming a demon and he remembers the moment all the guilt that had been suppressed while he’d gone dark came crashing down again.

And from what Sam told him – that Crowley once openly bragged about the evil things he’d done – he assumes that he’s not doing well right now.

He does his best to concentrate on his driving and not glance back every few seconds; at least Sam does enough watching for the both of them, obviously still figuring out why they ended up with Crowley.

Dean, meanwhile, is busy attempting to find an excuse why he’s so damn glad to see the former King of Hell, even in his sorry state.

Yeah, he grieved and told himself he shouldn’t, and yeah, sometimes he missed him. They knew each other for years when he stabbed himself, and he’d become a familiar face in a world where that’s a rarity, and –

Yes, maybe their “Summer of Love” had something to do with it as well, because whether Dean has ever admitted as much, they actually were friends back then, or as close as two demons can get anyway.

Crowley doesn’t say a thing the whole drive, which is disconcerting to say the least. Dean doesn’t think he’s ever had a conversation with him without being reminded how much he loves the sound of his own voice.

Loved, apparently. All rules have been thrown out the window, he reminds himself, because that’s no demon in the backseat, that’s a man who needs help, furthermore, a man who needs help because he was helping them, and they won’t throw him out. They’ve history of not treating their – allies as well as they deserve, and as far as Dean’s concerned, it’s high time they stop doing that.

He meets Cas’ eyes in the rear view mirror.

As always, they understand one another without saying anything.

He’s concerned too.

At least Crowley follows orders (and isn’t that just another sentence Dean never thought he’d use).

When they tell him to get out of the car, he does.

When they show him an empty room and tell him it’s his, he sits down on the bed, still shaking badly.

When Dean hunts down some old clothes and hands them to him with an instruction to clean up and change, since his suit looks about as bad as he does, he takes a shower and returns to his room in jeans and a t-shirt.

Isn’t that a weird sight.

It’s pretty clear nothing will be happening when he sits down on the bed again, so Dean searches for the others.

They’re in the library, Sam pretending to read, Cas mustering him with a worried expression.

“Sam...”

“Don’t” he says quietly.

“I’m – pretty sure I get it. I just need some time”.

After a pause he adds, “I didn’t even really mean it when I thanked him that one time”.

“That’s alright. I thanked him too, and I did mean it”.

Dean smiles at Cas.

“After all, he could have just used that lance to gank Lucifer”.

“Instead he chose to save me. I wondered, at the time. It’s become clearer since I turned human”.

Dean grins and draws him into a hug.

“Yep, that’s what humanity’s about.”

Cas laughs.

Dean’s smile drops when he thinks of what this means for Crowley, though.

That’s what, three hundred years worth of doing evil deeds and laughing about it afterwards?

“Sam, didn’t you say he got all weepy and begged for forgiveness when you tried to cure him?”

Sam nods.

“Yes, but back then it happened slowly. This was sudden, and he has to deal with being resurrected too”.

After a pause he adds, “Dean, me asking to take him to a hospital... It wasn’t just me being a bit hard on him. I’m not sure we can handle this on our own”.

“I know”.

But he also knows that teh thought of locking Crowley up and throwing away the key is making his skin crawl.

“He just hates being confined, alright?”

A detail admitted during one of their late night drinking sessions when they were both demons and living it up.

“Alright” Sam says slowly. “There should be someone with him at all times, though. Losing your mind isn’t fun”.

“I agree” Cas chimes in.

It’s the one experience Dean can’t say he’s shared with his brother and best friend, despite the fact that others would probably think he’s as insane as he can be.

Dean nods.

“I’ll start the watch”.

“He’s always liked you the best anyway” Sam says.

Dean snorts.

“Means he’s hated me a little less than he’s hated everything but me, and that includes his mother”.

Oh dear, he suddenly remembers, Rowena. Now that he feels like a human, he probably misses her too.

And then there’s Gavin. He was even upset about his son’s death as a demon.

Crowley’s still sitting on the bed, staring at nothing, shaking.

Dean never thought he’d seen him like this, and he’d lie if he said it doesn’t hurt a bit.

Cain and his “mixed feelings” indeed.

He leans down so he can look Crowley in the eyes.

All he gets is a vacant stare.

Is that even him anymore? Is there a chance they’ve picked up a literary agent from New York, traumatized by years of being dragged around all over the place by a demon?

But no; if this was Crowley’s meat suit, he wouldn’t trust them instinctively.

“Crowley” he begins slowly, “You can stay here, you understand? You can stay here and get your bearings. You know the bunker’s safe. Just... try and get better, alright?”

At least Crowley blinks. That’s more of a reaction than Dean hoped for.

They settle into a routine. Crowley, after a few days of staying in his room and not doing anything, develops a habit of following one of them around, as if he’s clinging to reality by watching those he knows.

He never says a word and he’s certainly not annoying anyone, so they let him.

Even Sam admits after a week that he pities him; and Cas, of course, has long forgiven him for anything he’s done to him.

Dean’s feelings are more complicated, because they’re even laced with guilt because he punched Crowley on the same day he stabbed himself so they could get away.

At least he eats and sleeps when they tell him to.

It’s only Dean’s thorough knowledge of the demon that ensures things don’t take a very tragic turn at the end of the first month.

He’s been suspecting for a while that Crowley’s becoming more aware of his surroundings, and when he realizes doing the dishes one night that a knife’s missing, he doesn’t hesitate.

Without a word he storms past Sam and Cas to the bathroom, where, sure enough, Crowley’s standing with the knife, his face blank as usual.

“No” Dean exclaims as he wrenches the knife out of his hand.

“No. We are not doing that again. Look, I get that you’re hurting and feeling guilty, but that’s being human. You stand up, and you dust yourself off, and you throw yourself back into the fight like the King we know, alright? I told you, you can stay. We’ll figure this out”.

He could have sworn there’s a flicker of surprise in his eyes.

After this, Crowley predominately starts following Dean. Sam thinks it’s a good thing.

“Means he’s establishing his old patterns” he says, whatever this means.

Crowley’s not even bad company when Sam and Cas aren’t around, so he doesn’t mind.

Things start getting better. One day when they’re grocery shopping, Crowley actually reaches out and touches his arm to get Dean’s attention and points at an apple pie with a somewhat mischievous expression.

Dean buys it to celebrate, no matter what Sam says.

Slowly, there are other things too. Crowley starts signing to them, even if he still doesn’t speak, and he actually invents signs to differentiate between them.

Dean’s strangely touched he uses his fingers to symbolize antlers when he means Sam, makes a flying motion when it comes to Cas, and actually imitates a Squirrel when he’s talking about him.

As stated before, most would consider Dean slightly insane.

He points out passages in books and helpful websites to them all the time now, and they can even leave him in the bunker when they hunt, even though they’re reluctant to do so.

But one day, it’s a whole nest of vampires sucking dry a middle-sized town, so it’s all hands on deck, and Crowley nods as they explain.

Not only doesn’t he speak, he also doesn’t send texts, so Dean thinks nothing of not getting a reply when he informs him it’s all been dealt with a few days later.

Nothing could surprise them more than finding dinner ready for them when they return.

Except for one thing.

Crowley clears his throat behind them.

“Hello, boys”.

They turn around to find him smirking at them.

Yes, this is the guy Dean remembers.

A little down-cast, and a little beaten, sure, but close enough.

Things are going to be fine.

[maryenette-writes]

Request List

I made this list so people could see what requests I have in my inbox. If you requested but don’t see your request down here, please tell me so I could add it. Also, please tell me if I made any mistakes!

Last Updated: 27/03/2017 Masterlist

I M A G I N E S

Requester: Anonymous Pairing: Tim Drake x Reader Request: “could you do a song request with Ruin by Shawn Mendes and with Tim Drake??” 

Requester: Anonymous Pairing: Dick Grayson x Reader Request: “Could you do a Dick Grayson x Reader where they're dating but Bruce doesn't like the reader (he thinks that she's a gold digger) and he's sorta rude to her but then one day he goes to Dick's apartment to talk to him about a mission and he sees the reader and Dick being super cute (maybe cooking or something) and realizes that they really love each other and later apologizes to the reader”

Requester: Anonymous Pairing: Terry McGinnis x Reader Request: “Can í please request one where terry and the reader meet for the first time at the manor and bruce disapproves because that's his grandbaby

Requester: @dc-comics-imagines Pairing: Dick Grayson x Reader Request: “Okay. So since I've seen some stories with reader with small boobs going around and since I'm in the itty bitty tiny committee myself I was wondered if you could write something with Dick about it. I don't know if you want to make it nsfw or not.”

Requester: @dc-comics-imagines Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader Request: “So reader is an artist and she has an assignment to draw someone so she asks Jason”

Requester: Anonymous Pairing: Dick Grayson x Reader Request: “Okay, so I'm a little nervous to request this. I don't know how you'll feel about this. Please, please, PLEASE don't feel that you have to write it if you feel uncomfortable. I totally understand, really I do. The last thing I want to do is make you uncomfortable. But could you write a Dick Grayson x Reader story where the reader and Dick are on patrol and the reader gets shrunk by a chemical explosion, and they're freaking out, so Dick has to calm them down and there's fluff? Thank you!”

Requester: @justmandothings Pairing: Dick Grayson x Reader Request: “Hello again! I didn't know if requests are still open, but I utterly love your writing and had a cute idea. Could you write a Dick Grayson x Reader where either Dick and the reader are making food and there's cute little shenanigans that go on between the two while they're cooking? Such as Dick dancing to music playing in the background and trying to get the reader to dance, while she's trying to crack an egg and giggling over how adorable he is. The typical 'putting food on each other's face' thing, etc. Any cute fluffy food related thing you can think of. Thank you so much if you can! I love your writing so much.”

Requester: Anonymous Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader Request: “Can I request Jason and it's his wife's first time while they're on their honeymoon? Like fluffy with a tiny bit of NSFW”

Requester: Anonymous Pairing: None Request: “Would you be able to write a batsis imagine where the boys go to see her perform for the first time as the prima for her ballet company?”

Requester: Anonymous Pairing: Dick Grayson x Reader Request: “Could you write an imagine about one of the boys s/o (you can choose whos), where they are a figure skater and try to teach the boys how to figure skate at the request of Bruce to help them get along after they all had a falling out?”

Requester: Anonymous Pairing: Tim Drake x Reader Request: “Okay, so I know you want a head cannons for requests, but i was wondering if you could write some sort of thing between the reader and tim where his s/o challenges him to a chess match and it just gets more and more intense as the game goes on?”

Requester: @hellomgann1296 Pairing: Terry McGinnis x Reader Request: “If it wouldn't trouble you, could I request Terry McGinnis and reader? Reader is a new crime fighter going by the name Sparrow. People assume she's the new batgirl though because she's always around batman but her excuse for that is always the same, "I fight WAY better than him". But in reality, they're completely smitten w/ each other. But when they met they agreed to keep it platonic for safety/scheduling reason. Friends may have taken a turn to friends with benefits... ...but they don't reveal their identities (domino masks). But one day after a particularly rough mission where reader or Terry is really cut up, the other takes the wounded one back to his or her apartment and while they are being stitched up, they take of his or her cowl/mask. The other person is shocked but the wounded person is like "I think the person I'm madly in love w/ should know that I'm more than just a pair of lips." The other does the same, they share names, and a sweet kiss.”

Requester: @alicerozenju Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader Request: “Hi! I'm still on Disney mood, and I was thinking on a prompt where Roy (or the Bat Boys) just saw the Beauty and the Beast (The original animated version of course :D) and thought on Jason as the Beast and the S/O as Belle, and when they saw them cuddling or being all lovey dovey the guys start singing or humming the Beauty and the Beast theme...”

Requester: @dc-comics-imagines Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader Request: “So Jason and reader broke up, because as he said he didn't feel anything anymore not even by kissing her and abandons her. Reader calls him a little time later to tell him she's pregnant and he is really mean to her, saying the kid is not his or that maybe there's no kid at all and that is her way of forcing him to come back. +  I just had this idea where she died during childbirth because she wanted Jason by her side and the stress of being alone made her weaker. And during the entire thing she was calling for Jason but he wasn't there. +  I feel like she has to be seem by Jason. Could that be a dream of his? That makes him feel more guilty? +  this dream makes him realize that he should be there for the kid.”

Requester: Anonymous Pairing: Dick Grayson x Reader Request: “Could you write about one of the boys s/o having a bad day and they try to make them feel better and it ends up with their s/o painting their nails and doing their make up with glasses of wine and shitty chick flicks playing in the background? You can choose which boy.”

Requester: Anonymous Pairing: Damian Wayne x Reader Request: “I don't know if you do song fics, but if you do, could you do one based on 'Say You Won't Go' by James Arthur for Damien?”

Requester: Anonymous Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader x Cassandra Cain (Platonic) Request: “Can I pls request a prompt with Jason ft Cassie? Reader is also a hero and likes to train a lot w/Cassie so she's around the mansion a lot. Jason develops a crush on her but doesn't know how to approach her so he starts involving himself in training.”

Requester: Anonymous Pairing: Damian Wayne x Sister!Reader Request: “Maybe something about Bruce's older daughter going mom mode when Damian has a problem in school, like, fear her, she can hurt you worst than the other Waynes. Even Alfred is scared, Barbara is her best friend and brings popcorn for the other girls.”

Requester: Anonymous Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader Request: “Can you do one with Jason where you end up protecting him. You gained powers from the particle accelerator (tying in the flash here) that surfaced when jay was in danger? Maybe the reader has elemental manipulation. Thanks!!!”

Requester: Anonymous Pairing: Barbara Gordon x Fem!Reader Request: “Okay is there anyway I can get some fluffy Barbra Gordon?? It can be when she was batgirl or oracle. Maybe she teaches her s/o some of her skills??”

H E A D C A N O N S

Requester: Anonymous Character: Dick Grayson & Jason Todd Request: “Hi love, could you do a NSFW head cannon (about anything in general about their sex life) for Jaybird or DICKBUTT pls? ❤️” 

Requester: @dc-comics-imagines Character: Batboys Request: “GOING CAMPING WITH THE BATBOYS”

Requester: @dc-comics-imagines Character: Batboys Request: “Headcanons on batboys with stubborn kids”

Requester: @dc-comics-imagines Character: Batboys Request: “HEADCANONS ON BATBOYS TRYING TO RAP AND FAILING MISERABLY?”

Requester: @minchen0897 Character: Batboys + Bruce Request: “Congrats on the 500! You deserve it - and many more :D Now, i saw you asked for Headcanons? I love Headcanons. So...how about the s/o of the Batboys being a soldier, and after being mia for...a year, maybe? They come home. Reactions, please? (Also, older Damian of course, otherwise it wouldn't make sense. And i would absolutely adore it if you would include the War Veteran Alfred too, because he IS a Grandpa to all of them, i am ready to fight everyone on this.) Thank you so much!”

Requester: @minchen0897 Character: Batboys + Bruce + Alfred Request: “Congrats on the 500! You deserve it - and many more :D Now, i saw you asked for Headcanons? I love Headcanons. So...how about the s/o of the Batboys Batsis being a soldier, and after being mia for...a year, maybe? They come home. Reactions, please? (Also, older Damian of course, otherwise it wouldn't make sense. And i would absolutely adore it if you would include the War Veteran Alfred too, because he IS a Grandpa to all of them, i am ready to fight everyone on this.) Thank you so much!”

Requester: @justmandothings Character: Batboys + Bruce Request: “Okay, here's a headcanon ask! Since it's snowing where I'm at, how about how Bruce and the BatBoys act around their s/o's when it's snowing outside and what snow fun things they might do out there. :D”

Requester: Anonymous Character: Dick Grayson & Jason Todd Request: “HCs for Jason/Dick dating a famous actress/singer? 😁”

Requester: Anonymous Character: Batboys Request: “Can you do HCs when the Batboy's s/o gets kidnapped by the Joker or any DC Villain? Tysm ☺😘”

Requester: Anonymous Character: Dick Grayson & Jason Todd Request: “Hc on how dick and Jason would handle their gf feeling really jealous/self conscious/low self esteemed about their previous relationships with Kori?”

Requester: Anonymous Character: Batfamily Request: “Headcannon for the batfam with their smol s/o or a road trip with the batfam and you're with one of them ? :) xx”

Requester: Anonymous Character: Batfamily Request: “Any headcanons when the bat family goes into a haunted house? >u<”

Requester: Anonymous Character: Batboys Request: “Same anon from a bit back where batsis comes home with a girl instead of a boy, could you write headcannons around that? Like how the family would react to batsis coming home with a girlfriend, and how they would react if it was another heroine, like Kara Danvers or Cassie Sandsmark?”

Requester: Anonymous Character: Jason Todd, Roy Harper & Kori Request: “Head cannon or a imagine of being part of the outlaws and what life is like living with them (Jay, Kori and Roy)?”

Requester: Anonymous Character: Batboys Request: “Head cannon for going on vacation with the boys (Dick, Jason, Tim, Duke,and Damian) ? Thanks Mary! :D”

S H I P S

Requester: @royslittleharper Request: “Can I please have a ship? i'm 5'8 ginger w dyed black hair & brown eyes. i love video game & fantasy/comedy genre. I'm trash for reality tv & sitcoms too. i'm cheeky & dorky at times but can have days where i just want to crawl into bed and use escapism to cope. i'm very protective and sarcastic and ready to go mumma bear at will. I struggle with some cues with people so i tend to be careful and hold onto grudges which I'm trying be better with. i'm addicted to coffee and i'm a sinner. Thank yo”

Requester: Anonymous Request: “Hey there, if you're still accepting ships, could I have one as well? I'm Val (short for Valerie). I'm 5'4, half white/Asian, with greyish blue hair, brown eyes and tan skin. I love travelling, reading, playing video games, and going online. I do not like having attention on me, can be a loner, but love being around people I care about. I'm always willing to put others first before myself, am sarcastic as hell and have a witty sense of humour. Thanks love if you do this!”

Requester: Anonymous Request: “Can I have a ship please? I'm a bi Latina. 5'3" with wavy, brown hair and eyes. I have an average/curvy build. I love cooking, movies and hiking. I struggle with anxiety. Right now I'm working towards becoming a psychiatrist bc I want to help others.”

O . C .   S H I P S

Requester: Anonymous Request: “Here's my OC: her name is Jennifer R. Morgan! She is from Vancouver, BC (so she's Canadian), is half white and Asian (Filipino), is the middle child (one older sister and one younger sister). Her father is a very powerful mob boss around the west coast and her mother is a bio chemist. Parents are divorced due to her father's line of work becoming too dangerous for the family. Kind of the black sheep of the family since she's very shy and isolated due to certain events in her childhood. Jennifer lives with her father and has recently began to partake in his line of work, much to her mother's and siblings knowledge; but then decides to leave that life. She later becomes a vigilante in her area, basically doing what the batfam does. Has light brown eyes, light olive skin, is 5'6 and shoulder-length raven black hair. Has a rose tattoo on her right shoulder, a Gemini zodiac symbol on her left hand (on her middle finger) and many little ones all over her body.  Her family is pretty well-off, but never has she ever taken advantage of that. She's rather 18-20 (I couldn't make up my mind lol), but appears younger for her age. Very close with both her siblings and close to both parents, but since their divorce, has distanced herself from them bc of their continuous custody battle over her younger sister (older sister is 4 years older; younger sis is 8 years). Jennifer's personally is much like Jason's and Tim's. She's also in uni.”

Requester: @batlog Request: “Maia is a 5’6 Brunette and is the daughter of the Asguardian's Skadi and Odin, but believes she is human, with no memories of her past after a prank gone wrong by Loki. She is outgoing and flirtatious and usually in prank wars, but can also ice people out when she gets hurt by them badly and cools off by shooting her bow. She's also very caring and gentle but can be extremely protective stubborn and gullible. Her favourite things to do are eat, tinker with gadgets and exercise. Thank you”

Requester: @pinkiepie125 Request: “Hey! Would it be okay if I sent in an OC ship? My OC's name is Stella and she's what many would call broken. She hates the feeling of helplessness but yet, it's the one feeling that she finds herself suffocating in. She wants to see the happiness in the world but it's too far for her, she can't achieve it and honestly, she doesn't see the way out. She doesn't even think that she could ever be happy. Hope this is enough information for the OC ships, this is my first time doing this! Thank you! <3″

Requester: Anonymous Request: “My oc is Hanna she's Russian and a magician, is mute, parents abandoned her at an orphanage, is a hard worker, not really good at expressing herself, loves reading, adores flowers, is ready to help and protect her friends.”

Requester: @i-n-v-e-r-n-i-s-m-o Request: “Intelligent girl that looks angelic but is sassy and ironic when you get to know her. Kinda mysterious because she doesn't say much with words but her eyes says everything. Fearless and her curly hair is as wild as she is in her heart. Sounds confident. Has so much love inside her that she doesn't know what to do with it, so she just pretend that all this love is dead. Loves deeply or doesn't care at all. Likes to be alone and is independent. Doesn't let people tell her what to do and is a bit dramatic sometimes but won't admit it. Loves horror movies and laughs while watching them. She tries so hard to be happy by herself but sometimes she needs someone. Too proud and cunning. Never felt real love before and act like she doesn't believe it but she's waiting for her love to show up. Doesn't want to be sweet princess because she's already a freaking queen. She can't forgive and forget. Has a golden heart that is damaged, but that's okay because aren't we all a bit broken?

Her name is Mel. Her father was French and her mother Brazilian. She was born in Brazil but moved to USA when she was a child. She always loved to read and learned things really fast. Her father was part of a small "gang" of thieves and was murdered after stealing from the wrong people. Her mother died trying to protect her husband and child. The same people who murdered her family "adopted" her as a symbol of victory to scare people who tried to steal from them. They were really agressive towards her but would never miss a chance of showing her off to look powerful. She spent years secretly training to scape and studying with the help of one of her father's partners that managed to survive but got locked up by the same family, he was her only friend. Years later her friend died and she escaped. She trained for months with no pauses while living in the streets and became a warrior so she tracked down her "family" and killed them, that day she became shadow, a antihero. She took over her "family's"  business and is the leader of their "mafia" but she always make sure that they're not hurting the wrong people.”

Requester: @ifthisislove-loveiseasy Request: “now about my OC: her name is Alma Markovich. she has 20 years old, has long black hair, she is 5'7 and she has brown light eyes, she never had a boyfriend, that's why she's a flustered mess around boys and she is a little clumsy and stubborn but its a good sweet girl. she moves to Gotham to finish her studies of nursing, she doesn't know about her parents since they died when she was little, so she lived all her life with a middle old lady until Alma decided to move to another city. Alma not only know about nursing, she also know speak English, Spanish, Portuguese, Russian and French, also know about close combat, about astronomy and she can cook very well. Her style is very casual but if she want she can be a total femme fatale. Her hobbies are watch the stars, read, play with any dog or cat, play the piano and help to anyone who need it.”

Requester: @nabilaqmr Request: “Hii maruthor! Can I please get an oc ship? My oc's name is Natalie, she's a very stubborn girl who tries to get things done her way and she doesn't take a no for an answer but when it came to the person she loves the most she'll *shyly* give in and agree to let things done their way. She has a habbit of seeing the good in others and always ended up getting hurt but thats one of the things that made her strong and she believes everyone deserve a second chance, she can be a savage if she wants to be and can be a little bit agressive when she's angry. She always put other's needs before hers and she would gladly sacrifice herself for her s/o she's loves to joke around and have fun but also knows when to be serious. That's basically it I hope it's not too long 😅 

So Natalie is 5'1, she has dirty blonde hair with bright green eyes, her favorite color is any shades of blue and green. She's a summer lover but she's also down to winter only for the hot cocoas and cuddles so she would probably wear a lot of tanktops or jackets. I wanna add a few more things about her that I forgot to mention, she's also Oliver Queen's daughter (forgot that detail _ _') she loves her father but she hates how much of a playboy and a flirt he, and probably any other guys she meets, she doesn't go for guys who are already taken by other women/men because she hates being the cause of a broken relationship. She also sees Dinah Lance as a role model and a mother figure so she learned a thing or two about how to defend herself in rough situations. And also she has this love hate brother sister kind of relationship with Roy but she loves anyways.” 

Requester: @schninner Request: “Hi there! I just wanted to start by saying that Red was amazing and yet it killed me a the same time, so kudos to you! I also saw that you were doing OC ships and was wondering if you could do my OC? Her name is Makayla Fray and her alias is Red Comet. She has wavey dirty blonde hair that is always in her face and Red eyes. Powers- she can fly, and when she does there is a red haze around her ( i always picture the tail of a Comet or the light that radiates from it) her body tempurature is normally 115-120. She has something sort of like a plasma blast and has super strength.  Although her powers mainly relate to heat/fire, she can't really use them to their full potential; because,  like a comet (which is basically like a dirty snowball), whenever she gets to hot or uses her powers to much she starts to deteriorate. So she has to drink a crap ton of water. Personality- she is fiercly loyal to her friends, she is clumsy as hell and in no way near graceful or sneaky. She blushes quite easily and gets flustered/embarrassed  whenever someone compliments her. She not really one for people and tends not to make friends easily, but the friends she does make, she loves them wholly. She is sassy and sarcastic when first met, but can be a real sweet heart when she needs to be. She is not really one for authority and can occasionally be a loose cannon out on the field I think I covered everything... But if you need to know anything else I'll be here! I hope you can work with my OC, but if not I understand. Thank you!💜”

Requester: @dc-comics-imagines Request: “I want you to ship him with a female...Okay so his name is Beau and he is 6'6. With long platinum blonde hair (almost like bleached) that he likes to keep in a half ponytail. He also has sandy colored eyes and a scar across his left eye and lower lip. He's warm witty and funny and very loyal. He always chases down the good chances whether it is for love or anything else. He is too devoted to his emotions but knows pretty well when they should be locked deep down in his heart. He rarely gets angry but when he does people fear him. He's too tall and he's either too clumsy or too smooth. He works as a cop and does well with all his colleagues. He likes to workout so he doesn't look like a huge walking straw. Also he avoids dating blondes because almost everyone in his family is blonde and he's kind of bored of that. He'd like it of his s/o appreciated his family, because he has two other sisters; His twin and the youngest members of the family who he protects with all his might and a total respect for his parents.” 

Requester: @dc-comics-imagines Request: “Okay so Lyla is Beau's little sister. She's brunette with natural blonde highlights here and there, since almost everyone in her family is blonde, except her dad. She's loyal, like her brother but sometimes she too damn dump. She has severe depression and she hates to admit so. She's constantly on her own little world, she's an artist and she actually studies art. Her dad forces her to become a cop just like her brother so they can have an eye on her. She decided that she should join the police academy after she had an affair with her professor at the college. (She was forced in this affair by him though, with blackmailing and stuff). Her old relationships hunt her, nobody has ever been too good to her and they seem to always take advantage of her insecurities. She loves her family too, but maybe not as much as her brother. She wants to get away from everyone and everything and be her own self. She doesn't want anyone to control her, she wants to be free and not to have to dye her hair blonde or black to fit the standards of others. she somehow needs someone to order her around. Sometimes she's feisty but she instantly regrets it.”

Requester: @dc-comics-imagines Request: “Taylor is my main oc. She's got dark brunette hair with forest green eyes. She's got mental abilities that she used to struggle to control. Her mother gave her to the Amazons because she couldn't take care of her. There at the age of four she killed an Amazons with her powers. The other Amazons expected Hippolyta to kill her or give her back to her mother but Hippolyta choose to help her gain discipline and with the right amount of practice she became a manhunter, working especially for the Amazons. Later on she came to men's world to go after Diana. But things were difficult because she didn't know the language. Being in the men's world though made her want to know about her biological parents.  After long fights with Diana she decided to stay in the streets. I won't brag about it much, but it was Dick who helped her learn English and helped her settle, and overtime she fell for him. Once she was rejected she was reminded that she was a monster, who only killed people and maybe that's why she wasn't able to be loved. But overall, she never does anything without being ordered too. She might appear as extremely pretty or fierce, as a woman so badass you have to fear, but she's so weak inside. But being an Amazon means she has no single insecurity. She always tells forward for those who indeed have and tried her best to protect the weak and clear her killer name”

Requester: @womenofjustice Request: “Thank you so much Rebecca Baxter Age: 25 Owner and founder of Baxter Technologies. Daughter of Trigon older sister of Raven. Lived in London but moved to Bludhaven build her business. Goes by source when she is fighting crime. Is a nerd. 6'8 dark skinned and plus sized. Sassy and a hard working woman but behind closed doors a weird nerd and geek who loves making Cosplay(s) and weapons. Has a weapons named monster metal that is a metal that she can change into any weapon she wants using her powers to charge it. Hopefully this is enough”

[emetoandotherthings]

How bout a slightly bloated and nauseous Damian getting stomach rubs and back pats from one of his mates to help him burp but ends up getting sick? Ahhh I love u and ur writing u have no idea!!! 💕💕

A/N: So! I’ve had this prompt sitting in my inbox for quite some time now, and as @its-a-goddamn-heartbreak and I were chatting about the end of Damian’s Coeliac Saga, this prompt came to mind, so I am dubbing it the epilogue as it’s set when they’re at university!! Thanks anon for the compliment - I hope you enjoy!! 😊😊

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 |

“Pfffft!” Damian collapsed heavily onto the low sofa in their flat kitchen, resting his head back briefly with his eyes closed. “Alright?” Cain asked, raising his head from the doodle that he’d been staring at while he ate his dinner. “How was your medic’s function?” “Long…” Damian muttered, shifting around on the sofa as though trying to get comfortable. “And full of pompous prats floating through on daddy’s money.” “Oh dear, not worth going to then?” Cain suggested and Damian made a non-committal noise in this throat. “Where are Aleks and Zara?” “Zara was too busy drinking – free wine…” Damian mumbled, rubbing his hands across his face. “And Aleks went – to meet Murray.” Cain looked across at his friend it was unusual for him to be so quiet, and the pauses in his speech pattern only made it more noticeable. “Are you alright?” Cain asked, placing his pencil down from his doodle that had spread across his A4 sheet. “Mmmmm…” Damian hummed, wriggling around on the sofa. “Brrrrraaaaaauuuuuurrrrp!” Damian covered his mouth as a deep belch rolled out of him. “I’m gonna take that as a no…” Cain said, rising from his place at the table and crossing to sit on the sofa next to Damian, who was still shifting in discomfort around the sofa. “What’s wrong?” “Aah – oh – I’m sorry…” Damian forced out, one of his hands moving to his stomach as his face screwed up in pain. “Oh!” “Damian?” Cain put his hand to Damian’s shoulder as his friend suddenly curled forward, both of his arms wrapping protectively around his abdomen. “Okay, Damian, you need to talk to me otherwise I’m going to call an ambulance.” Concern was bubbling through Cain as Damian let out a low moan as he shook his head. “I think…” Damian started to force out, and Cain could hear his teeth grinding as he fought against the pain. “Oh God… I’ve eaten something – with wheat.” Understanding flourished through Cain as Damian rocked back and forth, trying to soothe the cramp in his stomach. “Oh no!” He exclaimed, but couldn’t help but feel slightly relieved that it wasn’t something more serious. “What can I do to help?” “There’s… There’s a hot water bottle in my room,” Damian groaned, “can you get it – for me?” “Of course,” Cain nodded instantly, springing up from the sofa. “I’ll only be a moment.” Cain practically sprinted through to Damian’s bedroom, and grabbing the hot water bottle he ran back. “I’ll fill it up… Can I get you anything else? Would painkillers help?” “N – no…” Damian shook his head, still rocking a little restlessly. “They don’t work when it’s this…” “Oh okay…” Cain was pouring boiling water into the bottle from the kettle; he felt rather helpless. Damian seemed to be in so much pain, but there was absolutely nothing he could do to help. “Here…” He fastened the lid on the hot water bottle and carried it over to Damian, who accepted it like a lifeline. “Thanks,” he murmured, clutching the bottle to his stomach. “Maybe you’d feel better if you lied down?” Cain suggested, indicating the length of the sofa, but Damian shook his head again. 

“Being upright helps more…” He replied, leaning back and drawing his left leg up so it was bent close to him. “Sorry Cain.” “It’s not a problem,” Cain gushed, “I just want to do anything to help.” “Will… you sit with me?” Damian asked. “Tell me about your day.” “Um well…” Cain tried to think of something other than the fact his friend was writhing in pain. “I’ve got an assignment to create an environmentally friendly structure at low cost that people could reside in permanently.” “Yeah? So what you – thinking?” There was a long enough pause between Damian’s words for Cain to know how difficult he was trying. “I was trying to figure out if I could do a sustainable treehouse,” Cain answered, struggling not to reach out and physically comfort his friend. “Treehouse – sounds great,” Damian nodded, one of his hands rubbing at his chest., A tight build up of pressure in his stomach made him feel like he needed to burp, but every time he tried the air snagged in his throat and wouldn’t bring any relief. “Urgh…” “Oh Damian,” Cain grimaced on his behalf. “Are you sure I can’t do anything more to help?” “I feel like – ugh – I need to burp but I can’t…” Damian said honestly, pressing harder into his stomach. “Do you want me to rub your stomach for you?” Cain offered and Damian stared across at him, his eyes wide – and for a second he looked like a little kid. “Your mum used to do that for you, didn’t she?” “Yeah…” Damian’s voice had gone weak, and his face was pale from the stress of the pain. “Would – would you do that?” “Of course, here…” Cain gently encouraged Damian to rest his head back against the sofa, then peeled away the hot water bottle that was held to his skin. “Just let me know if you’re uncomfortable.” “Mmmhmm…” Damian had closed his eyes and appeared to be fighting against the pale. Cain was cautious as he pulled up the t-shirt Damian was wearing, revealing the flesh of his abdomen, and he very gently placed his fingertips onto Damian’s stomach and began to rub a light circle. Cain could hear Damian letting out slow and controlled breaths through his mouth. “Is that okay?” Cain questioned, anxious not to cause any more pain. “Yeah…” Damian mumbled. “I’m sorry – I should have been more careful.” “Don’t be silly Damian,” Cain replied. “You wouldn’t have knowingly done this to yourself!” Damian was rubbing his own chest again, Cain was concerned by how much discomfort Damian was in. “Are you still feeling like you need to burp?” “Yeah…” Damian nodded, opening his eyes to look at Cain. “I feel like all the air’s trapped in here.” He pointed to his upper stomach and screwed his face up once more; under the palm of Cain’s hand he felt Damian’s muscles tense as a cramp wracked through him. “Mmmmmmnn…” “Let me try help,” Cain said nervously, moving his hand further up Damian’s abdomen, and putting more pressure into his skin. “Is that pressure okay?” “Brrruurp!” A short belch burst past Damian’s lips, and his cheeks went a little pink as he mumbled: “Excuse me.” “Did that help?” Cain withdrew his hand quickly, afraid that he’d hurt Damian; but Damian’s hand shot out and grabbed Cain’s wrist. “Please keep doing that – it really helps,” he asked pleadingly. With that permission, Cain put his hand back on to Damian’s abdomen and started to massage up and down its length. As Cain kneaded his fingers he could feel the bloat in Damian’s flesh, and as he pressed further he could almost feel the air moving about in his gut. “Brrrrrrrrrppp!” The deep belch forced out and Damian shifted around on the sofa. “Urgh, this really hurts.” “Is it not getting any better?” Cain questioned as Damian let out another uncomfortable groan; Damian shook his head. “I feel like – my stomach’s expanding…” He explained. “God I can’t believe I used to deal with this every day!” “It’s just a slip up, once it’s out of your system you’ll be back to normal,” Cain told him reassuringly. “I know, I just-” Damian doubled forward again. “I feel so bloated.” Damian looked thoroughly miserable. Cain frowned, trying to think of any other he could help – he had an idea, but wasn’t sure whether Damian would be happy to try. “I’d do anything to get rid of this – urghh…” “Really?” Cain asked, looking at him intensely. “Yeah!” He nodded instantly. “Come here,” Cain began to manoeuvre Damian up from leaning on the back of the sofa. “I’ve got an idea that might help…” “Okay,” Damian shuffled forward to the edge of the sofa. “You’re gonna put your head on my shoulder,” Cain told him, feeling a little apprehensive about what he was going to do, “Like you’re giving me a hug.” “Okay,” he moved so his chin was resting on Cain’s left shoulder and Cain wrapped his arms around his best friend – holding him steady with one arm and using the other to rub his hand up and down Damian’s back. “I used to do this to Jethro and Zachariah when they were little and needed to burp,” Cain said nervously, giving gentle pats into the mid section of Damian’s back. “Baaauuuuurrrp!” Almost instantly Cain felt Damian’s back move slightly as a deep belch rolled out of him, coaxed by Cain’s ministrations. “Oh that felt good… Keep going, please…” Cain smiled slightly, feeling Damian relax into him more as he moved his hand all over Damian’s back. “Buuuhhhrrp!” “That’s it,” he encouraged, running his hand up more firmly and feeling Damian’s spine. “Is this helping?” “Yes,” Damian confirmed; Cain’s hands felt like they were magic, every time they ran up and down his back he felt like another pocket of air was dislodged and pushed up, like squeezing toothpaste out of a tube. “If I’d known you were so good I’d’ve come to you before I was diagnosed…” “As long as it’s helping you now,” Cain said, glad that the laboured sounding breaths had died down and Damian no longer seemed to be experiencing such strong cramps. “Brrraaaaaap!” After this burp, Damian let out a little sound of pleasure and seemed to nestle his head further into Cain’s shoulder. 

“You tell me when you want to stop,” Cain muttered quietly, beginning the gentle patting motions again. “Mmhmm… buuuup!” Damian said, “I will.” Cain continued rubbing and patting Damian���s back, hearing occasional burps from him. After a while Cain wondered if Damian was beginning to fall asleep as his weight grew heavier, but, following Damian’s instructions, he kept going. “Buuuuuuuurrr –“ Damian’s shoulders jerked suddenly as an unexpectedly deep belch came from him, “huuuuuuurrrrrk!” Damian’s entire body tensed instantly, but it took Cain an extra second to understand why. He became aware of a warm wet sensation down the left side of his back, he could hear a gentle dripping sound, and Damian seemed to be trembling suddenly. “Damian…?” Cain started slowly. “Mmmmmm…” Damian let out a small whimper. “Did you just puke on me?” Damian drew back, away from Cain’s shoulder, his hands shot up to cover the bottom of his face. His eyes were wide with horror as he nodded slowly. “I’m so sorry!” He whispered, sounding absolutely horrified with himself. “I didn’t – god – I’m so sorry!” “Do you feel better now?” Cain asked, working very hard to keep his voice calm and measured, even though he could feel the dampness seeping through the back of his t-shirt. Damian nodded, not removing his hands from his face. “God, I didn’t know that would happen!” Damian’s pale cheeks were rapidly turning scarlet. “I’m so sorry!” “Damian,” Cain held his hand up to stop his gushing apologies, “I have four younger brothers – do you really think I’ve not been puked on before?” “No, I – oh, I’m sorry!” Damian apologised once more, lowering his hands from his face; Cain reached out and fastened his grip on Damian’s upper arms. “Do you feel better now that’s out?” Cain questioned directly. “Yes,” Damian confirmed. “Right, well stop apologising! I’m just glad you feel okay,” Cain told him. “You sure?” Damian mumbled, staring into Cain’s face like he was looking for any indication that Cain was lying. “Positive!” Cain assured, and Damian relaxed slightly. “And if you don’t mind, I’m gonna go change my shirt…”