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jaythes1mp · 1 year ago

Text

Here, Kitty.

Yan batfam x cat hybrid reader -> CH1

12609 words, 71519 characters, 719 sentences, 224 paragraphs, 50.4 pages Next chapter

You can't recall exactly when or how you first came into contact with the billionaire and his sons, but if you could, you would go back in time and prevent that meeting from ever taking place. In a heartbeat.

Sitting obediently on a glass table tucked in the center of a crowded Wayne Enterprises boardroom, you find yourself ensnared as Bruce Wayne diligently delivers a familiar presentation, each sentence having been painstakingly practiced during the car ride over. Having overheard his repeated rehearsal with Alfred, you find yourself unconsciously mouthing along to every word. The tight black and green collar around your neck only worsening your discomfort, its stiffness constricting your movements and snagging on your freshly groomed fur.

The man continues on with his presentation, his polished demeanour and authoritative tone captivating the attention of the surrounding investors and executives. However, you find it difficult to focus on his words, the ridiculous knitted Nightwing sweater pressing against your back causing an uncomfortable itch. You shift slightly, wincing as your freshly combed coat brushes against the stiff fabric.

The weight of Bruce's unwavering gaze lands on you like a furnace, and you can almost picture that infuriatingly fond smile plastering his face. Just the thought of it made your stomach churn with disgust. Your tail swishing side to side in distaste.

He continues to drone on and on; and you find yourself struggling to stay still, the uncomfortable position, itchy sweater, and the heavy weight of Bruce's stare making it increasingly difficult to focus on anything he's saying. The only thing you want to do is scratch the infuriating itch, but the tight collar around your neck and Bruce's looming presence ensure that you remain obediently still. You know better than to cross them. How willing they are to punish you, so you stay still.

Your thoughts drift to a time when you were still unburdened by this enforced domestication. A pang of longing and bitterness settles in your chest as memories of your previous life come flooding back. You remember the simple freedom of being able to move about unmonitored, the comfort of lounging in the sun, unbothered by the Wayne families suffocating grasps.

Your paws effortlessly propel you across the icy rooftops, leaping and bounding with a careless grace. The cool night air brushes through your untamed, unhindered fur, the wind whistling past your ears. A bag is clenched between your sharp teeth, the fabric muffling your breathing slightly as you scale each building with purpose.

The city's neon glow stretches out beneath your paws, the distant lights casting a soft, surreal hue on the urban canvas. Free to go wherever you please. You could spend minutes, hours or even days just wandering under Gotham’s starry sky, with no one to tell you what to do or where to be.

You pause your journey and arrive at the edge of a dark alley, peering down at the scene below. A woman holds two teens hostage, a pistol pressed against their shivering frames. Your tail involuntarily fluffs up, matching the tension in your body as your slitted eyes dart to each potential escape route. A hiss escapes past your teeth, and you set the package down at your side before delicately pawing at a loose brick in the wall. You slide it from its position just enough to create a domino effect, the brick falling directly onto the woman's gun-holding hand.

A small, satisfied mewl leaves your throat as the woman wails in pain, her broken wrist cradled protectively in her grip. The two teens immediately seize the opportunity to make their escape, scrambling out of the alleyway. The gun slips from the woman's grasp, and she drops to her knees clutching her wounded hand. Your ears fold back and a low hiss escapes your lips at the sight, but you remain perched on the roof-top, unmoving. You slowly lower back down to take your package, then turn away. Your paws hitting the nearest rooftop with a small thump.

Your paws carry you further and further away from the robbery, the events replaying in your mind like a vivid, disjointed dream. You launch yourself from roof-to-roof in a series of quick dashes and leaps, your body seemingly on autopilot as you weave through the city's darkened backstreets. The silence of the rooftops envelops you like a comforting blanket, the city below finally at rest. A cool night breeze caresses your untamed fur, rustling its unkempt strands. Balancing the package carefully in your mouth, you bound toward your home’s familiarly cluttered balcony.

Your eyes scan over the cluttered balcony, taking in the random assortment of books, clothes, and trinkets strewn across the small space. Your padded paws land quietly on the rough wood, a subtle thump breaking the silence. Your muscles relax ever so slightly as the familiar surroundings wash over you. Without a second thought, you make your way to the edge of the balcony, lowering the package with your paws before curling up beside it, your ears folding back in an almost contented manner.

Your eyes had just shuttered closed as you basked in the soothing midnight breeze, when the sudden crash of metal yanks you from your reverie. Your ears perking up and pivoting towards the source of the disturbance. A low, frustrated huff escapes your snout. You stretch out your limbs, your tail flicking in annoyance as you lower yourself from the edge of the balcony and peer over the side.

Peering down from your perch on the balcony, your eyes widen in surprise. It’s...a boy? Wearing a skin-tight red and black bodysuit with a vibrant yellow cape. A flicker of familiarity sparks in your brain; you’ve seen this one before. Red Robin.

You observe him silently from your vantage point, tilting your head to the side as your eyes rove over his frame. He lets out an exaggerated groan, grappling awkwardly with an unfamiliar piece of gadgetry. A low, scoffing hum leaves your throat and your tail lightly thwaps against the wood, twitching in amusement. You had only seen him in pictures before, but damn, they didn’t lie. He looked absolutely ridiculous.

You lower yourself with a single, fluid motion onto the metal stairwell, feeling the rough surface scraping against your little paws. A small hiss of displeasure escapes your throat, but you brush it off and continue. You approach him curiously, taking a moment to inspect him. Your nose twitches as you sniff at his cape before finding a comfortable spot to sit and look up at him expectantly.

He doesn’t immediately notice your approach, his mind seemingly occupied by the malfunctioning gadget in his hands. You watch as he fiddles with the device for a few moments before his attention finally snaps to you. He visibly jumps, startled by your sudden proximity. He lets out a startled breath, eyes widening. You had gone to him.

You let out a snort of derision. Him, a vigilante? A detective? Unlikely. The thought of him trying to solve a case or outwit a criminal is absolutely absurd. You let your gaze wander over his costume once more, imagining how differently he would react if you were in your human form right now.

He slowly lowers the gadget, his eyes fixed upon you as you recline before him, behaving like an awaiting house cat. He observes you with quiet, analytical interest, his gaze roaming over your small form, taking in your twitching tail and reasonably-groomed fur. He seems to ponder the sight of you, weighing in on your not-quite stray, yet not-quite pampered appearance.

You gingerly shift closer, standing on your hind legs before pawing at his pants. A small indignant huff of disappointment escapes your lips as the material refuses to tear, the tightly-woven fabric holding firmly against your claws, unable to even tear the slightest thread, but you mask it with a small, almost cute "mew". Nevertheless, you are determined to make the most out of this situation. Planning on coaxing all the pets you possibly can out of this man.

He shoots you a curious look, tilting his head to the side. You can almost hear the cogs turning in his brain. He then slowly reaches out a gloved hand, hovering it over your head hesitantly, waiting for your response.

The end of your tail gives a happy flick, betraying your eagerness for his touch. You press your cheek against his knuckles, enjoying the sensation of his fingers against your fur. Instinctively, your ears fold back, granting him better access to run his fingers further through your soft fur. Sucker.

A soft, delighted purring sound fills the air as your eyes flutter closed, your purrs becoming a constant, steady low rumble in your chest as he continues to gently stroke your head and down your neck. Oh, this is heavenly. Your tail swishes contentedly, and you lean into his touch, almost shamelessly seeking out more.

His gloved hand is much bigger than your entire head, the soft fabric of his suit brushing against your fur. Yet, his touch was gentle and deliberate, slowly tracing the outline of your ears and down your spine, causing a blissful shiver to run through your small body. Your eyelids droop further, nearly closing completely, your purring becoming louder as you relax into his touch. You don’t notice the pleased knowing grin that crosses his face.

The weight and warmth of his gloved hand was almost soothing, his fingers weaving between your fur with a sort of rhythmic motion. You let your body go limp, your head rolling back to further expose the underside of your chin, silently begging for more of those slow, careful caresses. Your eyes are almost completely closed now, a small rumble in your chest the only sound you remember how to make. God, you haven’t been pet in weeks.

His hand moves from your spine to the base of your tail, and a low sigh of pure contentment leaves your mouth. He seems to sense your delight and focuses his attention there, running his fingers through the base of your tail, causing you to involuntarily arch your body towards him, purring in approval.

He seems to know exactly what to do, his touch deliberate yet tender. A little too well. It's as if he's somehow mapped out each and every spot that you secretly adore and is now exploiting it to great effect. The constant caresses, pets, and scrabbles have worked you into a sort of euphoric, almost trancelike state, your mind becoming blissfully devoid of conscious thought. All you can focus on is the warm, firm touch of his gloved hand.

The moment is shattered, however, as deep voice from his comms shatters the sweet, blissful moment. Your little pointed ears perk up, instinctively responding to the sudden intrusion of sound. “Tim? Why does it say you’ve stood still?”

You pull yourself from your blissful state with a reluctant huff, the sound of the deep voice in his comm jarring you back to reality. Your ears flick back, annoyed at the interruption. Tim– Red Robin seems to tense up, his hand frozen in mid-pet. He lets out a small, nervous chuckle, looking down at you. "Sorry, I got…distracted."

Your tail lazily swishes against the stairwell, silently expressing your irritation at having been interrupted. You can practically hear his sheepish, nervous chuckle, can practically sense the tension in his frame. "Distracted?" The voice in the comm questions, but you huff, tuning out the conversation.

You let out a small, frustrated huff before turning your focus back onto Tim's still form. Ignoring the man's comm conversation, you push your little, fluffy face against his leg, letting out a needy demanding mewl to regain his attention. You're not done yet, damn it.

His eyes flick back over to you, a mix of apology and amusement evident in his gaze. He resumes his prior motions, sliding his hand down your spine with a soft, comforting caress, tracing the same path he'd followed before. All the while, his other hand is fiddling with the comms device, probably replying to the man on the other end. Good. As long as his hands are still touching you, you don't particularly care what he's doing. “You found them?”

You sigh and let yourself relax once again, the soothing motions of his fingers against your fur quickly working you back into blissful indifference. You let your eyelids flutter closed, sinking back into the soothing rhythm of his touch. The only sounds you can focus on are his breathing, the soothing rasp of his glove against your fur, and the low hum of the comm conversation. This is nice.

He continues this motion for what feels like an eternity, the blissful sensation of being pet taking over your senses and dulling your brain into a euphoric, mindless state. You find yourself leaning heavily against his leg, the steady rise and fall of his chest and the low rumble of his voice against the comms acting as an oddly soothing background noise. Damn, you could get used to this....

Gradually, you become aware of him shifting, his hand leaving your spine. A low whine escapes your throat, your eyes opening to look up at him with a mixture of annoyance and pleading. Come back. You meow, demanding.

You let out a low grumble of complaint as he stands and picks up the device once more. Irritated at the interruption of your moment, you bat at his leg with your small paw, then quickly scamper away, leaping back onto the balcony from before. Now alone, you let out a sigh and circle the small space multiple times. The wood scraping against your claws sharply.

With a quick shift, you transform back into your human form, the small package clutched delicately in your hands. Turning, you slide open the door to the balcony and step through, the cool night air rustling against your clothes.

Tossing the small package onto the countertop, you drag yourself over to the couch. Your limbs ache with exhaustion as you collapse into the cushions with a thud. You bring the well worn blanket with you, wrapping your tired body in its familiar comfort. Your muscles are screaming out for rest. Which you happily oblige.

You're wrenched out of a fitful sleep, eyes fluttering open as the familiar, infuriating sound of construction greets you. Fuck. A loud, frustrated groan escapes your chapped lips. You pull a nearby couch pillow over your head, desperately trying to muffle the noise. With bleary eyes, you squint at the digital clock reading 5:42. You want to die.

The relentless hammering, banging, and drilling outside the thin walls of the apartment pierce your eardrums. You swear you can feel each blow of the hammer, every screech of the drill, deep in your bones. Make it stop. You press the pillow more firmly against your ears, trying in vain to block out the incessant din. You silently promise yourself that if you ever meet the city planner responsible for approving this construction, you'll kick him square in the nuts... Or right in the vagina– whatever. Now is not the time to debate over this.

With a groan of irritation and an abundance of hissing, you force your tired body into a sitting position as you squeeze your eyes shut tightly. You take a moment to rub your temples for some relief from the dull ache forming behind your eyes.

You open your red rimmed eyes and swing your legs over the side of the couch. The exhaustion from last night feels ten times worse now after being woken up prematurely by the construction racket. You mentally curse whoever’s in charge here, and their entire bloodline. Silently wishing for the noise to stop. Maybe you can sleep in the bathtub later...

You brace one hand against the side of the couch as you use it as support to rise to your feet. A series of satisfying cracks and pops resonate down your spine. By the sound of it you’re a chiropractors wet dream.

You let out a low sigh of relief as you straighten, your back now less taut than it was a few moments ago. Small mercies, right?

With your hands clamped tightly over your tender, sensitive ears, you stumble into the kitchen. You begin searching through each cabinet with a desperation that borders on violent. Your mission? Find the strongest headache pills you have.

After hastily flinging open each cupboard and shelf, you finally find what you’re looking for. A small, white bottle filled half way with little white tabs. With a quick twist, you pop the lid open and pour two pills out into your palm, before downing them dry.

You lean against the kitchen counter, eyes squeezed shut as you press the heels of your hands firmly into your temples. Come on. Work already..

You wait in silence, only the buzzing of the refrigerator and occasional hammering outside filling the air. You press your palms against your temples, as if physically willing the pills to work faster. The tension between your shoulders tight as piano wire.

You let out a frustrated groan, turning the tap on, lowering your head under the rushing water. You gulp down a few mouthfuls, letting the water run over, through, and past your lips. The noise of the tap muffling the sounds of the construction. The coolness of the water temporarily soothes the ache behind your eyes.

You let the water slide past your lips, closing them to savor the cool sensation. Your mind grows blank as you lose track of time, lost in tranquility despite the racket outside. Then, with a shaky hand, you turn off the tap, stepping back as you reach for a tea towel to dry your face and neck. The cloth rough against your tender skin, but the motion is calming, and your shoulders loosen the slightest bit.

You lean back against the counter, the cold marble seeping through your shirt, almost numbing any sensation on your skin. You take another moment to towel dry your hair, the rough material scraping against your scalp, and sending a pleasant shiver down your back. The small action temporarily distracting you from the pounding in your head.

You drop the towel, letting it fall onto the counter behind you. A long exhale escapes your mouth, your shoulders dropping as you relax. For a moment, the water seems to have worked. Unfortunately, the relief is short lived as the headache slowly creeps back in. A low growl escapes your lips. Ugh.

You scan over the bottle, reading the small print. Only twenty minutes before the damn things start to kick in. Shit. You shove the container back inside the cupboard, a frustrated huff leaving your lips. You drag your body over to your room, every step a tedious task.

You stumble into the room and collapse onto your bed, face first. You let out a low groan as your body lands on the soft, fluffy mattress. It welcomes you with open arms. You let yourself go limp, letting the comfort and softness of your bed lull you into a quiet state of half numbness. You can’t tell if it’s the lack of rest, or the pills finally starting to work, but you’re suddenly feeling incredibly woozy.

With a sluggish effort, you shift your head up, wincing at the sharp, persistent thrum in your skull. Despite the throbbing, you slowly extend your arm to reach for the pair of shorts laying on the edge of the bed.

With a weary sigh, you shuck off yesterday’s cargo pants and pull the new shorts up your legs. The simple motion feels like climbing a mountain. Deciding that the headache pounding through your mind was too much to change your shirt, you collapse back onto your bed. The sheets cool against your overheated skin.

You lay there for a moment, letting the comfort of your bed take hold. Despite the headache still pounding through your head, exhaustion slowly starts to take hold of you. Your eye lids flutter as sleep slowly creeps in. But just as you’re about to doze off, your stomach lets out an obnoxious gurgle, the sound piercing the silence. Great.

You let out a frustrated sigh as you shift up from the bed, grimacing as you do so. Your untamed hair sticking up in random directions. You rub your temple, as your stomach lets out another loud grumble. You let out an annoyed whine as the realisation sinks in. You’re out of groceries.

With a disgruntled huff, you haul yourself up for the second time. Reaching for your jacket as you quickly make your way towards the front door. This time choosing to forego the balcony and just walk like a normal person. You swing open the front door and step out into the hallway. The fluorescent lights buzz annoyingly overhead.

You step into the hallway, your shoes slapping softly against the tiled floor. The sound of the construction is no longer muffled, the endless banging and grinding now clear as day. You wince as the onslaught suddenly becomes unbearable. You quickly make your way to the staircase instead of the elevator. You can’t handle being jammed into that tiny space with the sounds of hell right now.

You take the steps of the staircase two at a time, just wanting to get out of this damn building as soon as possible. Each step echoes with a rhythmic thudding against the cold concrete as you make your way to the ground floor. The headache pills have finally started to work, but the pounding construction outside is slowly undoing their efforts.

You stride past the workers, shooting each of them a murderous glare. It’s not their fault they’re just doing their job. But goddamn it, the headache is worsening and it’s all you can do to not snap at them. Instead, you settle for shooting them a glare that could rival Batman himself.

You bite the inside of your cheek, trying to suppress the angry words building within you. Just keep walking. It’s fine. They’re not at fault here. It’s stupid to be angry at them. You repeat the mantra in your head like a broken record as your legs carry you further down the street. Further away from that blasted construction noise.

You keep walking, your shoes thumping against the concrete as you go. The further away you get from the construction, the more the headache starts to abate. You let out a quiet, shuddering breath of relief as you glance around at your surroundings. Barely anyone was out at this hour, the streets still mostly asleep.

After walking another ten minutes or so, you pause in the middle of the street and let out a string of quiet curses under your breath. The stores won’t be open for at least another four hours, and your stomach is starting to demand sustenance again.

Frustration builds inside of you, your teeth clenched tight together as you shuffle in place. You can’t go back to your apartment because of that goddamn noise, and all the stores that aren’t run by mobsters are closed.

You sigh, resting your tired body against the graffiti-filled wall behind you. There was another option you could try. But whether or not you were desperate enough to do it was something else.

You chew on your bottom lip in contemplation. You hadn't eaten much more than a small yogurt cup yesterday, and your stomach was protesting it's emptiness in a loud, gurgling complaint. You release a long sigh, doing a quick glance around to ensure no one was nearby before shifting into a cat.

The transformation is swift and graceful as you shift into the form of a sleek cat. Your body shrinks, limbs elongating and changing shape as soft multicoloured fur sprouts from your body. You stand on four paws, tail swaying languidly. You give yourself a quick shake, licking your little paws for good measure before looking around again.

You take a moment to get used to the new body you’ve assumed. Everything felt a tad bit more sensitive in this form. Your ears swivel around at minuscule sounds as you sniff the air with your sensitive nose, picking up on the various scents floating through the street.

You decide to try your hand at pity first, before resorting to thievery if your first plan fails. You slink down the street, your paws silent against the pavement beneath you as you search for some poor unsuspecting soul to assist you.

You stalk down the street, ears pricked and head tilted as you listen for the sounds of anyone making their way through the quiet street. You make yourself as adorable as possible: wide, begging eyes and sticking out your chest. A pitiful meow leaving your little cat mouth every so often, just for good measure.

You make your way through the city, heading towards the more upscale side of Gotham. You sway your tail idly behind you, the appendage brushing against the concrete and gathering the dirt that sticks to your fur. You make sure to rub up against some objects, gathering enough dirt and debris to make yourself appear slightly disheveled, but not enough to set off your instincts to want to groom yourself immediately.

You reach a neighbourhood of opulent high rises and well manicured lawns, plush houses and gated communities starting to become more frequent, a stark contrast to the graffiti-filled blocks you had passed before. Your fur is dusted with enough dirt to look untidy without feeling uncomfortable, and you let out a small meow as you glance down the street, scouting for a likely target.

You spot a man of considerable height, around 6 foot tall, with an intimidatingly built physique. His shirt clings just slightly too tightly against his chest, leaving little to the imagination. A scar mars the side of his face, making him look even more menacing. But you’ve seen far scarier looking men loitering at the end of your street. Saying that, doesn’t mean you’re any less scared of his imposing figure. So you quickly duck under the nearest parked car, attempting to conceal yourself beneath it.

You watch in trepidation as the man begins strutting towards the vehicle you’ve hidden yourself beneath. He kneels down in an unhurried, smooth motion, and peers right under the car. His gaze instantly locks onto you, your eyes widening in response to his intense stare. For the briefest of moments, you could have sworn there was a look of softness in his eyes, as if he hadn’t expected to see you.

“A cat?” The man lets out a small huff, shaking his head in what seemed like disbelief. His gaze drifts to your disheveled appearance, taking in the dirt that clings to your fur. He lets out a low hum, continuing to watch you with a mixture of intrigue and curiosity. His muscles slowly relax. A smirk appearing on his face as he studies you closer.

Your tail sways behind you, your ears perking up at his relaxed gaze. A sly little grin of satisfaction threatens to rise to your face, but you hold it back, instead letting out a pitiful meow as you slowly shuffle closer to him. He doesn’t move away, watching your every movement with unwavering eyes.

You lower your head, slowly moving towards his boots. You let your body press against the soles of his shoes, a soft purring sound escaping your little feline mouth. The dirt from your fur slowly coats the previously clean material of his boots, but he doesn’t seem to mind the mess.

You continue to press your body against the hard leather of his boots, leaving behind a dusting of dirt. He crouches down, gently reaching out a big hand, careful not to scare you off. You can see the muscles in his arms flex with the action, the veins prominent on his knuckles. He gently runs a finger over your head, scratching just behind your ears.

The feel of his big hand against your head is gentle, his touch unexpectedly tender as he lightly scratches at the skin behind your ear. You let out a rumbling purr, unable to fight the comforting sensation that slowly starts to take over. Despite his intimidating appearance, he’s surprisingly sweet towards you.

He’s a hard-looking man, his appearance disheveled and weathered, a white streak through his jet black hair. His wide physique is almost intimidating, but you can see his heart already start to soften after a few moments. It seems even he isn’t immune to the charm of a pitiful stray cat begging for food and affection.

"What are you doing all the way out here, kid?" The man's deep, slightly grating voice calls out as he continues to gently scratch behind your ear. He's staring down at your small form with an odd expression of concern on his face, his eyes drifting over your disheveled fur.

Your ears perk up at the sound of his voice. Something suddenly seems terribly familiar about it. You tilt your head, glancing up to get a clearer look at the man’s face as you try and place where exactly you’ve heard his voice before.

You look closer at the man, studying his features with a furrowed brow. There’s no mistaking it now, you’ve definitely seen this guy somewhere before. You’re sure of it. But there’s no way you’d ever know anyone this big and intimidating before… right?

The man stands, gently scooping you up into his arms. He gives you a light pat on the head before he starts to move. “Come along then, I don’t need that little shit on my ass for leaving their little obsession stranded so far from home,” he mumbles, as if he’s talking to himself and not you.

You’re left blinking in surprise as you’re lifted from the ground, cradled in the man’s arms. You look up at him as he starts walking down the street with you, a bewildered look on your face. Obsession? Stranded? What the hell is this dude on?

The man continues walking, his stride even and unhurried. He glances down at you and scoffs, as if he’s amused by the sight of you. He mutters something under his breath as he walks, something that sounds like “God dammit, B.” He brings his hand up to give you a gentle scratch under your chin, the gesture almost affectionate.

Your stomach chooses the perfect moment to let out a loud grumble, the sound amplified by being so close to the man’s hand. You can feel his hand twitch against your belly slightly, and he lets out a low chuckle.

“Hungry, huh?” The man drawls out. He stops his stride for a moment, pulling out his phone as he keeps you cradled in one arm. You can’t see anything from this angle, but you can hear the sound of him making a phone call.

It’s only a few rings before someone picks up on the other end. You can faintly hear a voice chatting softly on the other line, even though you can’t make out what they’re saying. The man lets out a small huff of annoyance before holding the phone up to his ear, shifting you in his arms to keep you comfortably balanced against his chest.

“Hey,” he says into the speaker, his voice gruff but surprisingly soft. “Yeah, I’m out on the east side. I found something.” There’s a pause as the person on the other line responds, and you can faintly hear them say something, although it’s muffled and indistinct. The man snorts, his eyes drifting down to you for a moment before he continues.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m bringing ‘em back. Relax,” The man responds to the person on the other side of the line, rolling his eyes. You watch the side of his face as he talks, your ears pricked, ears catching snippets of the conversation. Relax? What do they mean by that? Are they talking about me?

“No, it’s fine. I’ve got it,” the man says, shifting you around again as he begins to resume walking. “I’ll be back in an hour.” The person on the other end says a few more words before there’s a beep signifying the call’s been cut. He shoves his phone back into his pocket before bringing his hand back to keep you cradled against his chest.

You huff softly, feeling a strange mix of irritation and intrigue swirling inside of you. In an attempt to distract yourself, you reach your small paw up, lightly tapping it against the man’s cheek.

It’s a small action, intended to be nothing more than a curious little jab. But against the rough, scarred skin of the man’s cheek, your tiny little paw seems almost affectionate. He glances down at you at the contact, his eyebrows raising slightly in surprise.

He studies you for a moment, a look of almost curiosity on his face. It’s a far cry from the gruff, hardened exterior he had been portraying up until now. He stops his stride for a moment, lifting you closer to his face to look at you more closely.

He seems almost… fascinated by you. His eyes rove over your soft fur and little face, taking in every detail. He lets out a low hum, slowly reaching out a hand and gently stroking your back. “The kid’s is gonna kill me for letting you get all dirty.”

The hand stroking gently down your back is surprisingly soft, despite the callouses and ridges of his fingertips. You can almost hear the wheels turning in his head, probably trying to deduce what to do. “You’re a mess,” he mutters, his gaze drifting over your disheveled coat.

You can feel the urge to roll your eyes at the man’s words, the comment practically begging for a sarcastic reaction. But you hold it back, reminding yourself of the delicious meal you’re hoping to get out of him. Better hold back on the sass, for now.

Instead, you let your tail flick idly, trying to appear as innocent and pitiful as possible. Come on, man. Have a heart. Feed me.

The dude glances down as your tail continues to flick against his arm, almost as if you’re trying to lure him into doing something for you. A light snort escapes his mouth, his fingers trailing down to give you a little scratch on the head. “You’re a sly little bastard, ain’t ya?”

His statement is more of an off-handed comment rather than an actual critique. He continues to scratch behind your ear, seemingly unable to resist giving you a little affection. His gaze drifts over your disheveled form, taking in the dirt-matted fur and slight exhaustion in your eyes.

He lets out a soft grunt, his touch gentle as he runs his hands through your fur. You can almost hear the cogs turning in his head, his eyes never leaving your disheveled appearance. “How long you been out here all alone, huh?” he mutters, his voice gruff but strangely sympathetic.

The man lets out a low huff, glancing down at you with an almost sympathetic look on his face. “It’s earlier than we planned,” the man mutters, a hint of regret coating his words. His hand still softly stroking through your fur. “But the renovations are nearly ready,” his eyes taking in your exhausted form. It’s hard to say if he’s talking to you or to himself, a note of assurance in his voice. “So soon, kid.”

You look up at him with a bewildered expression on your face, your little mind still trying to make sense of his words. What is he talking about? Renovations? Who’s he talking to? Who are the people he keeps mentioning? What is even happening right now? But you quickly cover it up and let out a tired-sounding meow, hoping he won’t notice the hint of confusion in your little feline face. He glances down at you, his hand slowly rubbing a soothing circle on your back.

“Don’t worry, little one,” he murmurs, his voice still gruff but the tone softer this time. “You’ll be safe soon enough.” He gives you a gentle pat on the head before resuming his stride. You can feel his arms cradling you against his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat almost lulling you into a sense of security.

Even as your mind races with unanswered questions, the beat of the man’s heartbeat seems to soothe you, acting as a strange form of comfort. His warm arms keep you tucked against him, the gentle rise and fall of his chest steady and unhurried. It’s an almost reassuring presence.

The man carries you down the street, the rhythmic sound of his footsteps and steady rhythm of his heart slowly lulling you into a trance-like state. The exhaustion from the past few days is finally catching up to you, a small yawn escaping your little mouth before you can try to fight it.

You can feel your eyelids growing heavy, exhaustion taking over your small body. The steady rhythm of the man’s heart combined with the gentle rocking of his arms as he walks send a wave of fatigue through you. You try to fight back the overwhelming tiredness, but another small, squeaky yawn escapes your little mouth.

With a soft contented sigh, you stretch out your little paws, making yourself comfortable in his arms. The man lets out a low chuckle as he watches your little legs extend, giving you a gentle pat on the back.

It’s strangely comforting, being held in the man’s strong arms. The sound of his laughter rumbles through his chest, and you can almost hear a hint of affection in the gesture. You feel the weight of your fatigue start to increase, your eyes slowly blinking shut against your will.

You blearily blink your eyes open, suddenly finding yourself lying on a soft cushion. The fabric feels luxurious against your fur, the plush material enveloping you in a comfortable embrace. You dazedly look around, trying to recall how you ended up on this soft surface.

Your little ears fold back as you look around, slowly taking in your surroundings. A brief moment of confusion washes over you as you realize that you had fallen asleep in the man’s arms. But seeing him still here, you let out a relieved sigh, your entire fluffy body moving up and down in the process. Thank everything that he didn’t leave me on the side of the road.

He glances over at you, noticing that you’re now awake. “You finally back with the living?” he says gruffly, his voice tinged with amusement. You can see a hint of a smile on the man’s face, betraying his hard exterior.

You lift your chin up in a defiant huff, letting your tail flick against the soft cushion as an additional statement of irritation. The man lets out a snort, his shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter at your small act of feigned irritation.

“Feisty little thing, aren’t you?” he mutters, his voice taking on a slightly amused tone. He reaches a hand out to give you a small pat on the head, his rough fingers gently stroking your fur.

Your chest lets out a soft rumble, purring at the feeling of his hand stroking through your fur. Your gaze drifts around the room, your nose twitching as you pick up on a delicious scent. Food, your stomach rumbles. Please, be food.

The aroma is tantalizing, making your little stomach grumble loudly in response. You wonder if it's your imagination, or if the man actually has food nearby. The man lets out another amused huff as he notices your nose twitching and your stomach rumbling. “Impatient little thing, eh?” he mutters, lifting his hand from your head to look at you with a slightly entertained expression. Your little paws twitch slightly, as if you’re preparing to go searching for where the wonderful scent is coming from.

He chuckles at your eagerness, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Calm down, bud,” he says gruffly. “Food’s coming in a minute. Ain’t gonna starve ya.’” He gives you another gentle pat on the head, his hand large enough to practically cover your entire body.

You let out a dissatisfied huff, your gaze still darting around to try and find the source of the delicious scent. You want to rush out and find the food immediately, but the man's large hand keeps you pressed firmly on the soft cushion. You squirm a little impatiently, your tail flicking idly against the fabric. Your cat instincts taking over.

He lets out an amused laugh at your squirming, your restlessness making it hard for him to keep you in place. “Hold still,” he says gruffly. “You're making it hard to keep you in one place.” He reaches his hands out again and gently holds you down, preventing you from moving around any further.

You’re not a fan of this guy keeping you down, your instincts flaring up in defiance. Despite the delicious promise of food in the air, you’re tempted to lash out and scratch him just for holding you in one spot. Release me, your inner self growls.

You pause in your struggle, your little ears perking up and your whiskers twitching as the clink of dishes and the soft sound of footsteps approaching comes from nearby. Your nose twitches with anticipation, the delicious smells in the air becoming more concentrated. Food.

You crane your head to get a better look at the approaching figure, your little body shifting slightly on the cushion. The man holding you down also looks up, watching as someone walks into the room carrying a tray of food. Your little mouth starts to salivate, the enticing scents wafting over to you and making your stomach rumble loudly.

The guy releases his grip once you stop squirming, letting you move freely again. You can feel your instincts taking over your little body, your tail curling around your side as you focus your attention on the tray of food being presented in front of you. “Here you are, Master Jason.”

Your eyes are almost glued to the tray, filled with the most tantalizing smells that you've come across. The man– Jason watches you quietly, amused by your little display. The person holding the tray sets the food down in front of you, the various dishes arranged in an almost tempting manner.

You want to purr in delight as you look at the food laid before you. Thank god there’s none of that dreadful cat food in sight. You've had your fair share of people trying to feed you that horrible kibble in the past, and you're definitely not a fan. This food smells a million times better than anything that ever came out of a can. Meat.

You shoot him a glance of appreciation before hopping onto the table, greedily pouncing on the food in front of you. You dive right in, devouring the food with gusto, your little tongue lapping at the meat hungrily.

You pay no mind to him as you feast on the delicious meal laid out in front of you. The smells, the texture, the taste; it’s all absolutely heavenly. You eat like you've never eaten before, your little body almost shaking with contentment. This might just be the best meal you’ve had in a long time. Maybe ever.

Meanwhile, Jason watches your little display with a slight smirk on his face. He doesn’t say anything, just watching as you devour the food on the plate in front of you with relish. He fishes his phone out of his pocket, quickly taking a picture of you digging into the food to send to the family in case they ask how you're doing. He lets out a soft huff of amusement at your behavior, a hint of fondness in his eyes.

You're so lost in the food, you don't even notice the older man taking a picture of you. All your focus is singular, eating as much as you can before it’s taken away. The man watches you with a mix of amusement and something else that you can’t quite place. Too absorbed in your meal to notice his reaction.

Once you’ve practically licked the plate clean, you finally feel a sense of fullness, your little belly pleasantly satisfying. You give yourself a little shake, a little bit of food still stuck to your whiskers. Jason chuckles slightly, watching your little satisfied display. He breaks the silence as you finish cleaning yourself off.

“Had enough?” he asks in a gruff voice. His words are gruff and blunt, but you can sense the touch of amusement within them. You let out a little huff, feeling satisfied but also a little bit embarrassed at how fast you had eaten. Too much food, you think, your little stomach feeling a bit bloated.

The next thirty minutes pass by in a blur, your mind fuzzy and filled with the sensation of being inside Jason’s leather jacket as he mounts his bike. He doesn't have a bag or carrier to keep you secure, so you cling onto his shirt for dear life, your little claws digging tightly into the fabric. The wind whips through your fur as the bike roars to life, the force of the breeze making you instinctively cling even harder.

You had assumed that Jason was simply taking you back to the spot where he had found you under the car. After all, there was no chance in hell that you were going to poke your head out of the top of his jacket to check yourself. However, as he stops the bike and unzips the jacket, revealing your familiar surroundings, your tail begins to fluff up in surprise. Your eyes widen as you realize you’re at home, as in, right outside your apartment. The fur on your back bristles, ears folding back. You’re quick to jump off of the vehicle, backing away. What the fuck?

You scramble off Jason's lap and onto the sidewalk, your little paws almost slipping in your haste. The moment you land on the pavement, you take a few stumbling steps back, your tail puffed up and your fur standing on end. How could he possibly know where you live? You hadn’t given away any indication that you lived here, or anywhere for that matter. You had been so careful to stay out of sight, blending into the shadows. There was no way he could have known. And yet… here you are, outside your home. You take a tentative step back, your little feet moving instinctively. Your instincts are screaming at you to run, to get away from this guy who seemingly knew too much about you.

Your eyes dart from the man to the building behind you, your mind racing. Everything inside you is telling you to run, to flee and go hide. You were supposed to be so careful, so cautious about keeping your identity a secret. And now this man standing in front of you, this guy you barely knew, had just pulled up right outside your home. How the hell did he know where you lived? Run, your instincts yell. Run, run, run.

You take another jerky step back, your little paws almost slipping on the rough pavement. Your heart is pounding in your chest, your breath coming in short, panicked gasps. You almost trip over your own feet, your mind flooded with a mix of fear and confusion. How does he know? How the fuck does he know!? You’ve been so careful, covering your tracks, making sure no one followed you home. But here he is, standing in front of you, looking all too calm and collected. You don’t know what’s worse, the fact that he knows where you live or how calm he seems about it.

You don't waste another second, your little feet moving as fast as they can. Your instincts are screaming at you to run and get away as fast as possible. So that's what you do. You take off like a shot, darting away from the bike, from the man, from everything. Your focus is on nothing except getting away, getting somewhere safe, somewhere away from this guy who apparently knew more than he should. You dart upstairs faster than you thought physically possible, breath coming out laboured as you panic, not bothering to check if anyone’s nearby as you shift back to human, unlocking your door and slamming it closed behind you.

Jason let out a heavy sigh, running his fingers through his hair in frustration as he watches you scamper off. "Fuck…” he mutters under his breath, watching as your small form quickly disappears from sight. "I didn’t think that through." He scowls, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. He hadn’t expected you to panic quite that much.

Your knees suddenly give way, and you collapse to the floor with a thump. Your hand instinctively moves to press against your chest, trying to calm the frantic beating of your heart. Your mind is racing, your body shaking from the adrenaline and panic of the situation. You’re suddenly hyper-aware of your own breathing, your chest heaving as you gasp in sharp breaths.

You feel like your heart is going to beat out of your chest, the adrenaline pumping through your veins making it feel like it’s about to explode. You can barely breathe, your gasps for air coming in quick, sharp pants. Your head is swimming, the world around you seeming to spin and tilt with each jerky movement. You can’t think straight, your mind filled with a swirling mix of panic and confusion. It feels like everything is closing in on you, the walls of your apartment suddenly feeling claustrophobic.

You try to focus on taking deep, calming breaths, but your body doesn’t seem to want to cooperate. Your breaths come out ragged and uneven, each one feeling like a struggle. Your chest is heaving, your heart pounding against your ribcage so hard you’re starting to wonder if it’ll burst. You drop your head down, resting your forehead against your knees, trying to steady yourself. Your mind is racing, thoughts and questions and doubts swirling in a confusing mess.

You desperately try to calm down, to ease the frantic beating of your heart. But nothing seems to work, the panic and confusion making it nearly impossible to think straight. Your head spins as you struggle to take deep breaths, each one catching in your throat like a lump. You can feel your body trembling, your muscles tense and coiled like a spring about to snap. The thought of the man outside your door, the man that knew where you lived, makes your stomach twist in knots.

It feels like your privacy has been invaded, your safe sanctuary no longer feeling so safe. You feel exposed, vulnerable, like a small, trapped animal. Your mind races, trying to come up with some kind of plan, some kind of solution to this messed up situation. But you’re too lost in your own head, too focused on calming your panicked breathing to come up with anything coherent.

You feel like you’re drowning, your body overwhelmed by the flood of emotions and the physical response. You need to get yourself under control, to get your thoughts sorted out and figure out what the hell to do. But it feels like your mind and your body are in a constant tug-of-war with each other, neither one willing to give in. It’s like being stuck in a nightmare that you can’t wake up from.

You’re suddenly aware of the silence in your apartment. It’s an eerie stillness that seems to echo the chaos in your mind. The only sound is the soft rush of your own breathing, the beat of your heart a steady drum in your ears. It’s too quiet, and yet it’s almost deafening at the same time. You stay slumped on the floor, your head still against your knees, too overwhelmed to even think about getting up. You can’t breathe.

Your lungs feel like they’re on fire, each breath a struggle against the tight feeling in your chest. Your body is shaking, the adrenaline and panic having physical effects that you’re powerless to stop. You try to focus on calming yourself down, to get your breathing under control, but it’s like trying to hold onto water. Your lungs seizing up with each gasping breath. You try to focus on your breathing, trying to steady the erratic rhythm. But it’s like your body won’t obey, each inhale sharp and uneven, each exhale ragged. You can feel your pulse throbbing in your temples, echoing the desperate rhythm of your heart. You need to get yourself together, to calm down. You need to calm down.

You try to mentally force yourself to calm, to slow down your breathing, but it’s like every part of your body is working against you. Your thoughts are a tangled mess, swirling around in your head like a storm. Your heart is still racing, the panic and fear making it almost impossible to concentrate. You try to focus on something, anything to try and control the chaotic mess that is your mind. But your thoughts keep slipping away, dancing just out of reach every time you try to grasp them. You can't think, you can't breathe, you can't move.

You’re trapped in your own mind, your own body. You feel so small, so helpless, so utterly alone. The silence in your apartment is deafening, adding to the feeling of isolation. You try to will yourself to move, but you’re stuck, paralyzed by your own fear and panic. Your heart is still thundering in your chest, the erratic beats echoing in your ears as you try to force your lungs to take slow, steady breaths. You need to calm down. You need to.

You force your shoulders to relax, your eyes fluttering open. Okay, okay… You can do this. You try to remember the steps you learned for managing panic attacks. Breathe in for four, hold for… You can’t think. Your brain is fuzzy, filled with a jumbled mess of thoughts and memories. You try to remember the proper way to do it but your mind refuses to cooperate. Four or seven? Or was it nine? Exhale for eight. Fuck, I can’t think.

Your mind is a blur, your thoughts chaotic and tangled. You can’t remember the step-by-step process. Something about breathing in for a certain number of seconds, holding it, and exhaling for another number of seconds. But the details are a hazy mess, your panic making it impossible to remember clearly. You try your best, sucking in a shaky breath and holding it for what you think is the right amount of time. But your heart is still racing, your hands still trembling. It’s not working. Why isn’t it working? Why the fuck isn’t it working?

Jason stands against his bike, his gaze fixed on the window of your apartment. He's on the phone with Bruce, his voice low and filled with frustration. "I know, I know…" he mutters, raking a hand through his hair. "I fucked up," he admits, grimacing at his own carelessness.

He listens as Bruce responds, his eyes never leaving the window. He can feel the weight of his mistake sitting heavily on his shoulders. He should have known that you'd react the way you did, and he should have stuck to the plan. But he didn’t. He just acted, without thinking. Just like always, his conscience needles him.

Jason sighs, his shoulders slumping slightly as Bruce continues to speak. He knows Bruce is right, he always is. He’s good at saying the things that are hard to hear but desperately needed to be said. It’s part of what makes him great, but it also makes him irritating sometimes. Like right now.

"I know," Jason replies, his voice slightly sharp. "I get it. But what am I supposed to do now?"

There’s a pause as Bruce replies, his voice muffled over the phone. Jason’s face tightens, his jaw clenching as he listens. Yeah, yeah. Be patient. Easy for you to say.

"I know,” he repeats, his voice strained. "But the kid bolted before I could even get a word in. Now they’re probably scared shitless in there."

There's another pause. Jason can hear the steady timbre of Bruce’s voice on the other end, his words blending in a stream of low, soothing murmurs. He rolls his eyes, bristling at the older man's calm, steady tone. It always makes him feel like a kid being lectured, even though a part of him knows it’s not entirely untrue.

He lets out another sigh, his body sagging against his bike. "I’m trying," he mutters, his voice barely above a whisper. "I know I messed up, alright? I’ll give ‘em time to cool off." He glances back at your apartment, a pang of something he can’t quite identify tugging at his chest.

He nods along to whatever Bruce is saying, his eyes flickering back to your apartment window. He wonders if you're watching him from behind those blinds, if you’re scared, angry, confused. Probably all three, his mind supplies.

He winces at the thought, his hand tightening around his phone. He hates the thought that he might have screwed this up before it even really started. Bruce is probably right, he should give you space. But the thought of just leaving you alone and confused chafes at him, makes him want to just go in there and fix things already. He knows Bruce can feel his tension, can sense the turmoil roiling beneath his stoic exterior. Damn Batman and his stupid emotional intuition.

"Yeah, I get it," he mutters into the phone, his voice tight. "I’ll back off, give them space. But I don’t like it." There's another pause as Bruce responds, his voice low and steady.

It soothes something in him, a part of him that still yearns for guidance and approval, even though he knows he’ll never admit it. It’s a part of him that he usually denies, pushes down, but moments like these have a way of bringing it to the surface.

He's silent for a moment, letting Bruce speak. The older man's voice is steady, a low, grounding murmur that somehow manages to both soothe and irritate him at the same time. He's always been good at that, somehow finding the exact words needed to either calm him down or piss him off even more.

Jason clenches his jaw, grinding his teeth together in frustration. He’s torn. Part of him wants to just march up there, kick down the door and force you to talk to him. But he also knows that would just make things worse. He’s not good at the whole patience thing, but he knows that just charging in like a bull in a china shop is only going to make things more difficult. Damn it. He swings his leg over his bike, settling onto the seat. He takes one final look up at your window, his gaze lingering there for a moment. He can almost feel the weight of your fear and confusion from here, like a tangible thing. It makes his stomach twist into knots, his hands clenching on the grips.

But he knows he needs to let you be, to give you the space you clearly need. So, with a heavy sigh, he revs the engine and pulls away.

You wake up with a start, your body jerking out of a fitful sleep. Your body is covered in a cold sweat, your clothes sticking to your skin in an unpleasant way. You sit there in the darkness, your breathing heavy and your heart thumping hard in your chest.

Your room is still, the only sound the faint hum of the air conditioning and the soft sounds of the city outside your window.

Three long weeks have passed since you last saw Jason. The days have slipped by in a blur of routine and monotony. You go to work, come home, eat, sleep, repeat. It's like you're living your life on autopilot, your thoughts often drifting to the man who showed up at your door that night.

Since that night, you haven’t shifted. Something deep inside you, some instinctual feeling, tells you that it’s not safe to do so. So you stay human, your animal form buried deep within you, a constant low hum of unease. The feeling of something bad happening if you shift is a constant nagging in the back of your mind, a feeling you can’t shake despite your attempts to dismiss it as paranoia.

The longer you stay human, the stronger your instincts become. You catch yourself acting cat-like in subtle ways: tilting your head to the side when you're listening, twitching at sharp noises, even finding yourself kneading at your shirt when you’re frustrated. It’s a constant internal struggle, your instincts demanding to be let out while your rational mind tells you to keep them contained. You know it’s not healthy, not sustainable, but you can’t shake the feeling that shifting is just too risky right now.

You’re acutely aware of how unhealthy this is. You can feel the tension building within you, the constant battle between your human side and your animal side wearing you down mentally and emotionally. Your thoughts are constantly consumed with the need to shift, the need to be in your animal form, the need to let your instincts take over. But something inside you is holding you back, some primal fear that won’t let you let go. It’s a constant struggle you can’t escape, a constant mental strain that's slowly but surely eating away at your sanity.

You groggily stumble out of bed, the cool night air hitting your skin like a refreshing splash of water. It’s late, the digital clock on your bedside table reading 2:47 AM. You shiver slightly, your muscles tight and cramped from your restless sleep. Despite the chill in the air, you can’t help the feeling of relief as you step out onto your balcony. The city is quiet at this hour, the usual bustle of the day replaced with a soothing, almost eerie calm.

In a moment of clarity, you realize you’re being ridiculous. You’re tired, you’re frustrated, and damn it you’re tired of living in constant fear. You’ve been tormenting yourself for weeks over this, letting your instincts fester and your body ache from the strain. And for what? What's going to happen in the middle of the night on a Wednesday? Nothing, that’s what. And you’re not going to keep making yourself ill over some bastard stalker.

With a rush of determination, you finally give in. You let your instincts take over, your body shifting and contorting into your animal form. The relief is immediate, the tension in your body melting away as you shed your human skin. The cool night air is even more refreshing in this form, your senses heightened as you take in the night around you. Finally, you feel like you can breathe again, the weight of your human anxieties falling away like a heavy coat. You felt free.

The world looks different through your animal eyes, the details sharper and more defined. Your ears twitch, picking up sounds you'd never notice in your human form. Your muscles twitch as your animal instincts kick in, a low purring sound rumbling through your chest. It's been so long since you've let yourself be like this, since you've just been. It's exhilarating, freeing, like coming up for air after being stranded underwater for too long.

You pad over to the edge of the balcony, your paws making almost no sound on the wood. You look out at the city, the glittering lights and silent streets a stark contrast to the chaotic hum during the day. It’s quieter, calmer, a sense of peace that you haven’t felt in ages. You take a deep breath, the air filling your lungs and making your fur stand on end. You feel more alive here, more yourself, than you have in weeks.

Your muscles ripple under your fur as you stretch, arching your back and tilting your head back. A low, rumbling purr vibrates in your chest, the contentment filling you almost overwhelming. You close your eyes, letting the sounds and smells of the city wash over you. You’ll deal with everything else in the morning. For now, you’re going to stay like this and enjoy the freedom.

You sit there for a while, enjoying the cool night air and the sensation of being so deeply in tune with your instincts. The city sounds become a soothing background noise, a comforting hum in the air. You roll onto your back, stretching out your body and letting your limbs go limp. Your tail swishes lazily back and forth.

You roll onto your stomach, your muscles coiling as you prepare to spring. With a powerful leap, you propel yourself onto the nearby roof. Your paws touch down silently, the soft pads muting any sound. Your heart is racing now, the adrenaline rushing through your veins as you break into a run. Running as an animal is different than running as a human. It’s more instinctual, more right. You can feel the ground underneath your paws, the muscles in your legs bunching and releasing with every step. You tear across the rooftops, feeling more alive than you have in weeks. The night air whistles in your ears, the city passing by in a blur.

Your stride is effortless, muscles straining as you push yourself faster, the wind ruffling your fur and making your tail fan out behind you. You leap effortlessly from rooftop to rooftop, your body a blur of motion. You’re not even thinking about where you’re going, your only focus is on the sensation of speed, the feeling of freedom. Gotham flashes past you in a dizzying array of lights and shadows, your world narrowing down to your heartbeat and the rhythm of your paws hitting the roof.

Time seems to blur together as you run, the hours flying by like seconds. The city blurs past you in a wash of colors and sounds, the lights of Gotham like stars in a night sky. You don’t focus on how long you’ve been running, or how far you’ve gone, or even where you’re going. For once, none of that matters. All that matters is the wind in your fur and the feeling of freedom coursing through your veins. Your body is sore and your heart is racing, but you feel alive.

You're so focused on the run that you don't notice the black boots in your path until you're upon them. You slam on the brakes, your body slipping and sliding as you come to an undignified halt in front of a pair of long, outstretched legs. You hiss in surprise and frustration, your heart racing from the sudden stop. You glare up at the figure towering above you, tail lashing.

Nightwing chuckles, a soft, amused sound that you can hear clearly even over the pounding of your heart. He lowers his eskrima sticks, holding them loosely by his side as he kneels down to your level. The hero's eyes are sparkling with mirth, his smile slightly crooked.

"Well, hello there." he says, his voice smooth and rich.

He tilts his head to the side, studying you with a curious gaze. You're still panting from your run, your body tense and braced for a fight. Nightwing's smile widens at your reaction, his eyes sparkling with intrigue.

"You're pretty fast," he remarks, a hint of amusement in his voice. He extends his hand towards you, the black, latex covering his fingers gleaming in the low light. He stops just millimeters from your face, allowing you to sniff and inspect him for a moment. His scent is clean and crisp, a hint of something sweet mixed in.

After a few seconds, he starts gently petting you, his gloved hand scratching behind your ears in a soothing motion. “You’re even prettier in person, kitten.”

A wave of unexpected pleasure washes over you as he starts petting you. His touch is firm yet gentle, just the right amount of pressure to soothe the tension in your body. His hand moves from behind your ears to scratching behind your chin, the soft hiss of latex against your fur the only sound in the quiet night. The petting feels ten times better after not shifting after such a long time. You lean heavily into his palm.

“You’re a runner, huh?” Nightwing murmurs, his voice a soft rumble. “Bruce isn’t gonna like that.”

His words are casual, almost conversational, but there’s an undercurrent of seriousness to them. He continues to pet you, his hand moving in a slow, soothing rhythm.

“Running around Gotham like this,” he continues, his tone dropping lower. “It’s dangerous. You should stick to the rooftops, little one. Makes it harder for the baddies to get to you.”

As your attention is occupied with looking up at Nightwing, you don’t recognise the second pair of boots that approach. You’re jolted out of your thoughts as another pair of warm hands suddenly scoop you up, grabbing your stomach and lifting you off the ground. The sensation is so sudden and unexpected that you don’t even have time to react. A startled yowl escapes you as you’re lifted off the roof and held against a broad chest.

Your body stiffens in surprise, a low hiss escaping your clenched teeth. Your instincts are screaming at you to flee, to lash out, to fight, but the hands have you in an unbreakable grip.

Nightwing straightens up, sliding his eskrima sticks into their holsters with a practiced flick of his wrists. He casts you a glance, his eyes softened with concern as he looks at your tense form in Robin’s arms.

"Careful, Little D," he says, a slight edge to his voice. "The kitty hasn’t been out in a long time."

Damian just scoffs in response, his grip on you tightening. His body is tense, his hands clenching in your fur, but there’s a gleam of curiosity in his eyes that betrays his indifference. His voice is as haughty as ever, a touch of impatience in his tone. "I know that, Grayson. I'm not a child."

Nightwing hums at Robin’s attitude, crossing his arms over his chest, leaning against a nearby AC unit with a slight sigh.

"Sure you're not,” he responds back to Robin with a playful tone of annoyance.

Damian just huffs, tightening his grip on you, causing you to let out a surprised, muffled meow in response. His eyes dart down to you, a slight flicker of fascination in his cold, calculated gaze. He loosens his hold subconsciously. Petting your head in a silent apology.

The younger boy doesn’t respond to Dick’s remark, motioning for him to hurry up already.

With a grin, Dick holds his hands up in a mock gesture of surrender. He reaches into his utility belt and procures a small, emerald green and black collar. A symbol you can’t recognise embroidered onto the back where the latch is.

This isn't any average collar that you can find at a pet store. This is high-tech, bordering extravagant. There's a small, golden bell hanging from the front, jingling softly with every little movement made, and there’s a silver, gold-edged tag already attached with some information you can't see yet. But what catches your eye, and fills you with a sense of dread, is the blinking red light on the centre, where it latches onto your neck. With these hook-like latches all around the inside that look all too much like they’ll pierce into you.

Before you can even think to react, Nightwing's already moving. He's faster than you can even register, the collar snatching around your neck in the blink of an eye. It tightens automatically, locking into place with a soft click. You can feel the hooks pierce into your fur and you let out a strangled whine.

As the collar locks into place, the bell on the front gleams in the low light, a soft jingle sounding as you jerk your head back in surprise.

Nightwing steps back, taking in the sight of you in the collar with a critical eye. He reaches forward and gives the bell a couple of light taps, the sound chiming softly in the night air.

"Looks good," he comments, a hint of satisfaction in his tone. "Tim did good."

Damian hums in agreeance with a slight nod, his grip on you still firm and unrelenting. He casts a scrutinising glance over your form, his eyes lingering on the collar for a moment before moving back to you. He brings his thumb to the latch, pushing into the embroidered symbol. “What was the cast?”

As Damian brings his thumb to the latch, pressing into the embroidered symbol, you hear a soft click, followed by a low chime. You feel the collar loosen around your neck, but it still stays in place. For a moment, you consider trying to tear it off, but a warning tug from the collar's hooks and a glare from Damian stop you short.

Dick grins. “It’s our kittens name, D.”

Damian scowls, rolling his eyes, but he doesn't argue. Instead, he turns his attention back to you, his eyes studying your form intently. It's almost unnerving, the intensity of his gaze.

He presses his thumb against the seal harder, his voice a murmur as he utters your name. When you feel the collar tighten around your neck, you try to jerk your head back out of the way, but the collar holds fast, the hooks attaching themselves deeper into your fur. You try to resist, but the more you struggle, the more your mind grows fuzzy. An intense drowsiness rushes over you, your eyelids growing impossibly heavy. Your vision starts to swim, the world around you growing dark at the edges. As the collar locks into place, the hooks latching more snugly into you, you suddenly feel trapped. Your legs buckle underneath you, sending you sprawling into Damian's arms. The latch on the collar is gone, replaced by a solid, unbreakable ring. There is no way to take it off.

The collar appears deceptively normal, made of a thick dark green leather-like material with a simple golden buckle to secure it. The only thing that gives away its high-tech design is the absence of a latch to clip it open. Most people would overlook it, mistaking it for a regular, ordinary collar.

As you black out and lay heavily in Damian's arms, Dick coos softly, bringing a hand out to rub along your fur. His touch is gentle, his tone affectionate.

"Aren't they so cute asleep?" he whispers, his gaze softening as he looks at your unconscious form.

Damian nods silently in response, his embrace around you tightening just slightly, tugging you closer against his chest. He brings his face down, gently nuzzling his chin into your soft, multicoloured fur, hiding the hint of a smile on his lips.

Dick steps forward, a smile on his face as he watches his younger brother hold you close. He reaches out to ruffle Damian's hair affectionately, before speaking up.

"Let's go home."

Guess who spent three days working on this

Anyway, it’s finally out! Send a comment or msg if you would like to be @ in chapter two and for any anon answers that I do for the fic

I had milk and warm cookies while making this, like a child.

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hashtagcigarette · 3 months ago

Text

Lisa Frank

summary: joel doesn't like you poking fun at his age. you make it your mission to prove to him that his age isn't a point against him.

warnings: unprotected piv, lil makeout sesh, reader is afab & able bodied but otherwise not described, pet names (angel, little girl, kid (once... dont look at me), baby, etc.), joel smokes, lowkey sub!joel for a second before he finds his voice lol, creampie, im probably forgetting some sorry folks

word count: 3k

note: this is truly just pure filth and a very small teenie weenie bit of plot surrounding joel's insecurity about his age. im horny for old peepaw joel what can i say. also i havent posted fic on tumblr in like 6 years so,,,, hello? ++ no beta we die like men or whatever they're saying now.

The ground between the small, square plots in your neighborhood became soft and jagged with fresh grass in the late spring, absent only in the shadows of the trailers and in the places where kiddie pools filled with hose water flattened the growth against the earth. You had a kiddie pool against your will– when your air conditioning had gone out, Joel had dropped a pink, plastic one at your front door with a sticky note inside that read, “DON’T DIE OF HEAT STROKE”.

And as trashy as it looked in your front yard between the orange picnic table and the rusted wire clothesline, you couldn’t help but stumble into it most mornings when you woke up sweating. You liked it even more when you had the willpower to drive to the liquor store and get a bag of ice to dump into it. This morning in particular, you’d even grabbed yourself an ice cream sandwich.

The freshly risen sun projected a yellow-orange hue through the high grass and onto the soles of your bare feet as they poked from the edge of the pool, the angle at which it shone reminiscent of six-ish-AM. Joel would be leaving for work soon, you knew, and your eyes rested on his front door as you slid your ice cream sandwich out of its wrapper.

He was one of the only neighbors you (sometimes) got along with. There was something about a stranger in town that gave folks the creeps, he had said, though you’d lived there a year already and no one seemed to be getting any friendlier.

As if you’d made it happen with your mind, a few seconds after you’d glanced in the direction of Joel’s trailer, the door swung open and smacked against the wall. His work shirt waved through the air like a flag as he tossed it over his shoulder, descending the steps in only a white undershirt and a pair of jeans that had absolutely seen better days. The jingle of his keys as he shoved them into his pocket was the only sound, save for the soft trickle of the hose into your pool.

You grinned as he stepped out from beneath the overhang and into the light. He put a cigarette into his mouth, looking you over.

“This is gluttony if I’ve ever seen it,” he said, fishing a lighter out of his pocket.

You forced a frown, flicking water onto his pant leg with your toe. “You bought the pool.”

“Yeah. Just didn’t expect the ice cream sandwich.” His lighter was red and dented, glinting in the sun as he flicked it beneath his thumb. Bending at the waist, he shielded his smoke from the breeze with a broad hand and rolled the sparkwheel in a continuous tempo, clicking and clicking and clicking as the sound of the hose dripping into the pool droned on.

You huffed, pushing yourself up on your arms. “C’mere. I got one.”

And boy, did you. It was a gaudy thing encrusted with purple rhinestones and a ripoff-Lisa-Frank decal, and it reflected the sunlight from the green, metal table that sat beside the kiddie pool. He knelt in the grass as you reached for it, watching your nearly bare body stretch and your wet hand tighten around the lighter’s bedazzled surface.

Resting his arm over his knee, he offered his hand, palm-up, and you placed the lighter into it with a grin.

“I think it’s your style,” you chirped, biting your ice cream sandwich as he looked the thing over.

He shook his head and lit his smoke, biting down on the filter like an amputee would bite down on a scrap of leather. “How’d you know? Think it goes with my outfit?”

“Oh, yeah. Pink brings out yer eyes. Makes you look younger.”

“Younger?” Joel wiggled his eyebrows, puffing out a ring of smoke and placing the lighter back into your hand. “How much younger, you reckon?”

Mocking thought, you pressed your finger to your chin, looking him over through your eyebrows. “You could pass for seventy five, give or take a couple’a years.”

“You’re not as funny as you think you are, little girl.”

“Okay, fine. Sixty.”

He shook his head, glancing back over his shoulder as the sun rose steadily over the hill behind the parking lot. It must’ve been nearly seven by then, making him nearly late to work.

You wiggled your toes, thumbing ice cream from the corner of your mouth and then licking it off. “Maybe fifty nine, if you’re lucky.”

“I am fifty nine.”

“Yeowch. Sorry.”

The muscles in his jaw twitched, sweat reflecting the morning light and accentuating the nearly invisible motion as he suckled the filter of his cigarette. When he glanced back at you, brown eyes blinking slowly in true kicked-puppy fashion, you giggled.

“‘M sorry. Didn’t know your age was a sore subject.”

“‘S not a sore subject.”

“Seems like it is.”

Joel exaggerated his pout, batting his eyes as he took a slow drag and blew smoke out the side of his mouth. “You’re just kickin’ an old man when he’s down, sweetheart.”

“Oh, you poor baby.” You cupped his jaw with your wet hand, soothing the coase facial hair beneath your thumb as a faux sob fell from his lips. His acting was a little sub-par (and he was much less funny than he realized, carrying on like he was) but Joel knew how to pull on your heart strings. Clicking your tongue, you said, “I don’t think you’re too old, honey. You’re just right.”

The pretend look of devastation remained on his face even as his eyes opened, both sides of his mouth contorting downwards into a pathetic glower. “Just right for what?”

But then you were too close to him, and his face was in your palm, and he was realizing that you hadn’t really touched him before this as you took a slow bite of your ice cream sandwich with your free hand. He could feel the bit falling away for a moment, face falling as you inched closer, heat pressing down on the both of you from all sides as the sun continued to rise.

You clicked your tongue again, grinning. “For a Lisa Frank lighter.”

Joel’s face faltered yet again, wide eyes blinking at you as you started to laugh. He cleared his throat, blinking. “Oh. Real funny.”

Your shoulders vibrated and you hung your head as you giggled, tossing the half-eaten ice cream sandwich into the grass beside the pool. “Wait–” you said with a smile in your voice as he started to stand, the hand on his face trailing down to his collar to pull him back down.

Joel, who had stopped thinking this was funny several moments ago, swallowed hard, watching as you flicked your sticky fingers in the water. He met your eyes again sheepishly when you said his name, sweat reflecting the blinding sun at his temple.

“Joel,” you said, still smiling. “I’m kidding. I’m sorry.”

And as needlessly embarrassed as he felt, he still couldn’t help but relish the feeling of you cupping his face, holding him with one hand as, with the other, you fidgeted and flicked beads of water into the air. You laughed softly, brushing your thumb over his cheek.

“Let me show you what I think you’re just right for, hm?”

And that was how he ended up in your trailer, sitting on the edge of your bed, becoming more and more late to work as the minutes crawled by. You straddled his lap, facing him, holding his jaw in your hands and looking him over with exaggerated admiration.

Joel was sweating, and he was sure that even if your air conditioning hadn’t been broken and even if it hadn’t been over a hundred out that day, he still would’ve felt feverish. His hands held your hips in a vice grip, nervous twitch entirely evident as his left wrist vibrated against you.

You gnawed on your lower lip, fingers moving up to thread into his hair.

When you breathed out a hushed “You’re so pretty”, it elicited from him the smallest of chuckles, only slightly audible over the sound of your ragged breathing. As if testing the waters, he slid his hand from your hip to your waist, squeezing you there instead.

“Oh yeah?” He dug the tips of his fingers into your damp skin, blunt nails and calluses pressing just a bit too hard, surely leaving marks.

Your bathing suit was an old red one, something you’d bought for yourself before you’d moved to Austin, something loose and outrageously easy to untie. Joel’s tremor was the only thing keeping you from tearing it from your body and tossing it to the floor– you didn’t want to scare him off. “Yeah,” you parotted, petting the scruff on his cheek with the gentlest pressure. Then, impatiently: “You wanna kiss me, cowboy?”

Joel swallowed, body becoming tense again beneath you. His face warmed beneath your fingers as he nodded, fingers drumming at your side. “Yeah.” He cleared his throat, meeting your gaze. “Yes. Please.”

You’d pictured kissing him before– it was something you did in secret, watching him from the window beside your bed in the evenings when he’d get home late from work, waiting for him to come back out with a beer and sit on his front steps. It was something you were embarrassed of and something you would never ever tell him about, but your fantasies stirred in the back of your mind as you finally did kiss him, pressing up onto your knees with his face in your hands.

He was more timid than you’d imagined, but you weren’t surprised by this. Anyone would seem timid compared to the way you’d pictured him– rugged, aggressive, uncaring as he took what he needed. That was the Joel you made up in your head when you touched yourself at night.

This Joel was visibly nervous, hand still trembling against your waist as he returned the kiss, soft lips drinking you in. This Joel pressed you against him like you might fall away, kissed you back unsteadily at first, but quickly gained confidence. This Joel, as the moments dragged on, brought his shaking hands up to hold your head, to steady the both of you.

You could feel him relaxing as you licked into his mouth and pride swelled in your chest, pressing out of you like steam escaping a whistling kettle. Your hands found his shoulders and, breaking away, you squeezed them, ensuring he was entirely real.

“I want you to fuck me,” you breathed against his lips, eyes flicking open, searching his features for any hint of hesitation.

He met your gaze with a small smile and, to your surprise, gripped the back of your neck with an unyielding fervor, pressing you towards him again and laying a wet kiss at the corner of your mouth. “Oh yeah?” he said again with a grin seeping through his features.

The tremor in his wrist had calmed somewhat, you noticed as you reached back and took his free hand from your waist, threading your fingers together. He guided you with this hand, pushing you gently off of him and onto your bed where you landed flat on your back. Your wet bathing suit surely left spots of water on the quilt beneath you, but no part of you cared enough to pay it any mind.

As Joel crawled over you, callused hands running over your bare stomach, you smiled at him.

“You been thinkin’ about this?” you asked, reaching for his face again as he dipped down to kiss you.

His fingers ran down your middle, gingerly dancing over your bikini bottoms. “Been thinkin’ about you since the day you moved in, darlin’.” The tips of his fingers dragged tortuously lower, splitting the seam of your cunt with his knuckles through the fabric. Gently, he cupped your mound, pressing his palm against you as he buried his face in your neck. “Spread your legs, angel. Be good f’me.”

You did as he said, even as a smirk crossed your face. It took everything in you to mutter “Be good?” as he pressed his thick fingers against your slit again, bikini bottoms digging against your little nub with the most delicious friction. Attempting to regain your composure as he worked you, you continued: “Don’t get cocky, old man.”

“Oh, none’a that,” said Joel as one finger ventured beneath the fabric, exploring your slick. The timid Joel seemed to have disappeared completely, having been replaced by whoever the hell this was. “You speak to your elders with respect, you understand?”

You keened, partly at his words and partly at the feeling of his callused fingertip brushing over your clit, pressing the bud in what seemed to be an experimental manner. As he began to prod your button, movements jerky and desperate, his free hand gripped the back of your neck.

“Come on,” he said, meeting your eyes with a self-satisfied grin. “Tell me you understand. Say ‘yes, sir.”

“Yes, sir,” you complied immediately.

“That’s what I wanna hear, kid. That’s it.”

He worked you for a minute or so, enjoying the feel of your little bud beneath his fingertips, and a frankly pitiful whimper escaped you when his hand retreated from between your legs. Squirming, you brought your knees to your chest, watching as his hands found his belt.

“You want me to fuck you?” he asked as he slid the leather from the loops on his jeans, discarding it on the dirty carpet and fishing for his zipper.

“Please, Joel.” Your voice was nothing more than a harsh whisper, floating from you as you watched him jerk his jeans down his hips.

He was leaning over you again before you could get a glimpse of his cock, pulling himself out of his boxers as he pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth. You couldn’t see it, but you could feel it– slipping between your wet lips, bulbous head pressing against your clit. “So polite,” he said, trembling as he ran himself up and down your slit. “Say it again.”

“Please.”

You must’ve asked nicely enough because then he was inching forward, pressing the fat head of his cock into you with no regard for the painful stretch, relishing in the pull of your little hole around him. A strangled sound left his mouth, whimpers pouring out of him like water from a broken tap.

You winced at the stretch, gripping his shirt in two closed fists. He gave you a distracted glare when a “fuck” escaped you, leaning over you and caging you in with both broad arms.

“Language,” he said, though as close as he was to bottoming out, your curses didn’t deter him.

When he was fully inside, pulsing length filling you entirely and stretching your poor hole to oblivion, he only paused for a moment before he began to move. Sweat gleamed off his forehead, reflecting the morning light from your bedroom window like soft, slick glitter and accentuating the concentrated twitch of the muscles in his jaw.

The pull of his cock dragging slowly out of your hole had you scrambling for purchase, arms looping around the back of his neck. “Joel. Jesus–”

“I know, I know,” he cooed, shushing you as he pressed a soft kiss to your temple. “You can take it. Just ease into it.”

“Want it so bad,” you panted as he moved back in, feeling his tip rip its way through you again on its trajectory to your cervix. You shook, feeling his lips trail down your jaw. “Want you to force it in, Joel.”

This made him laugh under his breath, a deep chuckle that reverberated against the low ceiling. He met your eyes with a grin as he pressed himself deeper, enjoying the way your face contorted. “You’re real fucked up, you know that, baby?”

“You like it,” you breathed, gnawing on your lower lip.

“Yeah, I do.”

As you relaxed around him, Joel found a pace somewhere between painfully slow and forcefully ragged, something steady that made you keen and squirm beneath his broad form. He pumped himself into you like every stroke was the most important one, brows knit together in concentration, feeling every bit of you drag up and down his massive length.

“So tight, angel. Jesus,” he muttered under his breath, almost to himself. The big arms that pressed the mattress down on either side of your head tightened and relaxed, pulsing in time with his strokes. “Not gonna last too long, little girl.”

The look that you gave him made him shake his head, gritting his back teeth. “Not gonna cum in you,” he said sternly, though the slam of his hips said otherwise.

You bit the inside of your cheek, brows knitting together. “How come?”

“What do you mean, how come, girl?”

“‘M on the pill.”

“‘S the principal of the thing, kid,” he hissed through his teeth, hanging his head as he fucked into you. His strokes were becoming sloppy and forceful, body slapping against yours with reckless, cacophonous abandon. “Fuck, ‘m close. Where do you want it?”

“In me.”

“Not funny.”

“I’m not bein’ funny.”

Each time he thrust into your little hole, a whine left you, fingers threading uncoordinatedly through his hair. Meeting his eyes, you craned up and pressed a soft kiss to his lips, tongue darting out to lick into his mouth. “Please, Joel,” you whimpered, watching as his face lost any look of composure. “Want your cum in me.”

“Angel.” A warning.

“Please.”

Joel hung his head once more, pressing his forehead into the crook of your neck, hands coming to grip your waist so tightly that his fingers would leave faint bruises. His resolve was slipping; his hips twitched, jerking as he pressed into you.

“Fuck. Okay, baby. Okay.”

And then his orgasm was ripping through him, making his muscles spasm and his face go slack. His cum was thick and hot, shooting from his cock like a medication drip and filling your hole to the point of overflow. Each time you thought he was done, another spurt hit your insides, ripping a low whine from deep in his chest.

When he finally collapsed on top of you, cock softening, he buried his nose in the crook of your neck. His grip on your waist still hadn't loosened, still holding you in place as he panted.

You watched the muscles in his back rise and fall, moving with his rapid breath, heart hammering against you. His greying hair caught the morning light, compelling you to put your fingers in it, to brush it back tenderly from his face.

“Thought you had work,” you said quietly, fingers dancing at the base of his neck.

Joel snorted. His eyes were closed. “Thought you thought I was too old.”

“You know I didn’t mean it.”

“Yeah, I know.”

#joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller #tlou hbo #tlou #smut #tlou smut #old man joel #how i love you #peepaw #coquette #lana del rey #aesthetic #anyways #joel miller x you

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elliezlils11utt · 6 months ago

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☆ 𐙚˙✧˖

ive had this idea for sooo longg. Jinx!whos braids are her prized possession. so when your hands end up in her freshly rebraided hair when shes eating you out, she has to stop everything shes doing (abusing your cunt) to scold you.

“fuck jinx, right there.” you pant, back arching on the bed as your girlfriend devours you entirely. now as soon as you hands snake into the blue hue of her braided locks, you KNOW you’ve messed up. your eyes squeeze up, and you wince just THINKING about incoming lecture youve received dozens of times before. you curse under you’re breath when jinx stops her tongue. quickly you try to fix her now frizzy hair frantically.

“how many times do i have to tell you not to touch the braids, literally ANYTHING BUT the braids.” she fakes irritation, lifting her head from her spot between your legs and instead sits criss cross between them. she places your legs over her own. of course this silly girl has seemingly forgotten about eating you out and is way more worried about her hair. droning on and on about how long it takes for her to braid her ankle length hair, and how your going to be the one rebraiding it after messing it up. you giggle at her antics.

“im sorryyyyyyy.” you giggle again.

“oh is this funny to you toots?” she points up at her puffy roots, a toothy smile on her face.

“eh, i mean a little.” you shrug, stifling a laugh. she looks like shes just gotten electrocuted. jinx climbs over your body and attacks you with tickles. her hands finding the spot that has you rolling around in a laughing fit immediately.

“funny now?? huh? huh?” she taunts, now straddling you. honestly she’s probably laughing more than you. you try to push her off of you when your stomach starts to cramp up from giggling so much. she gives in after you threaten to pee yourself between huffs. once you’ve caught your breath you tease her.

“god ur so annoying.”

“oh and im going to be even more annoying when i make you unbraid and rebraid my hair later tonight.” she drags herself between your thighs again.

“pfftt as if.”

she kisses your thighs and looks back up at you and deadpans her face.

“oh im being so for real.” she flashes a grin a resumes licking you up like nothing happened.

a/n: i love this silly girl. loser!jinx core? i have a loser!ellie obsession and now i’ve created loser!jinx… i think i have a type😓

#arcane fandom #arcane fanfic #arcane jinx #jinx x fem!reader #jin x reader #jinx smut #jinx arcane #jinx x reader #jinx #loser!jinx #wlw #lesbian #girl in red #wuh luh wuh

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draqu1a · 4 months ago

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.𖥔 ݁ ˖ A RISKY STREAM . . .

— what kind? : SMUT — warnings : sexual&suggestive content ahead , viewers discretion is adviced , MDNI .

• fic inspired by : @bernardsbendystraws

The neon glow of Matt's gaming rig painted your face in shifting hues as you gripped the controller. "Chris, you seeing this shit?" you yelled into the headset.

Chris, cackled from the other end of the Discord call, his voice echoing through your head set. "Nah, I'm too busy carrying your sorry ass! You are trash tonight."

"Shut up," you retorted, trying to focus on the digital firefight unfolding on the screen. You were sat down on Matt's lap, his arms wrapped loosely around your waist, ostensibly to "guide" your gameplay. But tonight, his guidance was… almost distracting.

"Focus, babe," Matt murmured, his breath ghosting against your ear. "There's a guy flanking you on the left."

Easy for him to say. He wasn't the one with a hand slowly inching its way under their shared blanket, sending shivers down your spine that had nothing to do with the game.

"I see him, I see him," you muttered, trying to ignore the warmth spreading through your core. Your fingers fumbled on the controller, your carefully constructed fort crumbling under a harsh wave of digital bullets. "Fuck!"

"Language, sweetheart," Matt whispered, his fingers now tracing the curve of your hip, dangerously close to your core. A little squeeze to your hip. The digital bullets blurred. You died.

"God damn it!" you hissed, partially peeling off your head seat . "I’m trying to concentrate here, Matt."

He just grinned, his eyes dark and knowing. "Am I distracting you, baby?"

"Maybe a little," you admitted, trying to inject some playful exasperation into your voice. “Chris thinks we are loosing on purpose.”

Chris’s voice boomed through the speakers. “What was that? Did I hear you two lovebirds finally admit you're throwing the game?"

Matt chuckled, a low rumble that vibrated against your back. "Nah, man, just… strategizing. Right, babe?" His fingers continued their torment, dipping lower and closer with each minute passing by.

"Yeah, strategizing," you managed, your voice a little breathless. You reached for your water bottle, hoping the cool liquid would take out the sudden heat flooding the inside of your body.

"Okay, well strategize faster! We're about to get wiped," Chris complained, oblivious to the silent battle happening beneath the blanket.

Matt leaned closer, his lips brushing your ear. "He doesn't need to know how we strategize," he murmured, his fingers now finding the edge of your shorts and dipping below the waistband. "Does he, baby?"

"Matt, stop," you pleaded, even though a part of you was begging him to continue. The chat if they would find out, would go absolutely crazy, but you couldn't bring yourself to care. Focus was a blur.

"Stop what? Helping you relax?" he teased, his touch becoming bolder, more insistent. A gasp escaped your lips as his fingers traveled beneath your flimsy lace panties, going right where you needed him the most.

"Dude, are you even listening?" Chris yelled. "There's a whole squad pushing us!"

"—Uh, yeah, Chris. We're on it," Matt said, his voice a little strained. He was watching you, not the screen. His eyes held a promise of pure, unadulterated pleasure.

His fingers slipped inside of your already drenched entrance. You bit your lip, trying to stifle a moan. The game, Chris, the chat – it all faded into a distant hum. All that mattered was the electrifying sensation building within you, the relentless pressure, the exquisite torture.

"Matt…" you whispered, your voice thick with desire.

"Almost there, baby," he breathed, his thumb pressing down on your sensitive clit while his slender fingers drive out of you with increasing speed and skill. "Just a little more…"

Chris's voice was a distant drone. "Hey, guys! What the hell are you doing? We're already dead!"

You didn't hear him. You couldn't hear anything but the pounding of your own heart, the ragged sound of your own breath, and the soft, satisfied sigh that escaped your lips as pleasure finally overwhelmed you, your gummy walls clenching down and sucking matt’s fingers in deeper as they soaked his digits in your liquids.

The screen went black. Your avatars returning to the main menu as the result of you dying and receiving a low score.

“Kid, I’m out for the night. Try to improve those shitty skills cuz tonight was not it.” Chris announces, taking off his head set before ending the discord call, before you decide to follow along.

Peeking off your own head set and muttering a quick goodbye to the stream, quickly ending the live stream to not raise any further suspicion on what you two were doing the whole game.

"Finally, I now got you all to myself," Matt said, pulling away slightly, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Now, where were we?"

𓂃˖ ࣪⊹🃜 . yappin claudia : second fic on this account :pp, I don’t know how to feel bout this exactly xd but wtv .

𓂃˖ ࣪⊹🃜 . taglist : @strnilolover @ifwdominicfike @courta13 @sturns-mermaid . . . .

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 6 months ago

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A Barter 7

Warnings: dub/noncon, smutty smut, I am a dark blog and I write dark things.

Summary: You are bargained to be wife to the witcher if he can slew the beast in the village.

Character: Geralt of Rivia

**note, I am not a Witcher genius or aficionado and so I may get some things wrong.

As usual, I appreciate any and all feedback and enthusiasm. Please reblog and leave a comment. Love! 😍

Your stomach presses against the rim of the tub. The water’s lukewarm, the floor is splashed with puddles, his rutting sending more over the edge. His growls remind you of a wild beat, deep and insatiable. Like the animal he mimics, he bites into the meat between your neck and shoulder.

Hot breath dampens your skin as he pinches you meanly. He hammers into you, his hands over yours as you brace the wall of the tub. You whine and pant, spasming against him as your walls ache from his bottomless appetite.

He snarls and snakes a hand down to your stomach. He feels himself in you and unclenches his jaw. He nuzzles your neck as his touch drifts further down. He spreads your lips and uses his middle finger to tease your clit. You babble as the speckling sensation mingles with your fullness and blooms to life.

You cum in a quaking fit, muscles shaking, thighs trembling. You collapse against the side of the tub completely but he doesn’t stop. His finger swirls as he pumps into you, slowing only as he finds his own release.

You hang over the edge as you gasp for air. You stare at the floor, your vision hazy in the flickering light of the single lantern. He growls again and it rumbles through. You tighten around him, whimpering at the tenderness inside. You don’t know how much more you can take.

You could cry at the thought that this is only the first night. That he would expect this of you anon. That you swore that to him.

He pushes himself away but stays inside of you. His damp skin peels from yours as he hooks his arm around your middle and lifts you with him. He brings his other arm under your knees to scoop you up and steps over the side of the tub.

He takes you to the bed, still buried deep, lays you on your side. He puffs as your wet bodies glisten and bumps raise on your skin. You shiver and he groans, holding you close as he inhales the scent of your hair. His hand moves to spread over your pelvis. He bows his head to rest his forehead against your crown.

Fatigue tugs your eyelids. You let yourself fall into the void. Those horrors roil in your mind. The fog, the crowded barn, the clop of hooves, the shady cavern and the lecherous eyes, the constant splash of water around the clap of flesh.

Your worn body succumbs to numbness. You drift away from the wakeful torment and into the pit without end. You fall down and down and down until light breaks through and the pluck deep inside of you.

You wake on your stomach. Under him as he rocks his hips lazily. He drones and nips at your ear. He fucks you in the soft light of dawn. You clasp onto the pillow and moan.

Your cunt is brittle around his intrusion. You’re wet and wanting despite the agony. You lift your bottom to ease the pressure. He slides his hand under you to toy with you again. Another orgasm washes over you, shivers crashing down as eagerly as his hunger.

He snarls as he cums. He stills and holds himself over you. He slips free and falls onto his back with a pained grunt. You stay as you are, plastered on your stomach. His breaths even out and you cautiously turn your head to see him.

The lantern has burned itself out and only the morning hues limn his profile. You consider him closely, now that he is still, now that he is not on you. He’s a big man. Daunting even. His dark lashes are long and thick, his chin clefted and stubbled, and his cheek bones high and as chiseled as his jaw.

He exhales and brings his hand over his softening member. He grunts again. You wince and roll onto your side. You bend your legs and whimper as your thighs meet. Somehow the emptiness is worse than being overly full.

He reaches to you and pets your hip. His eyes open and seem to glow in the dim. His fingers swirl over your skin as his seed cools between your thighs.

“I will go and lock the door. You will not open it. Not for any.”

You sniff and gently rest your hand on his, “will you be gone long?”

“Not if I can help it. I will leave food on the table.”

“Yes, husband,” you accept. The promise of peace, of some time alone, a moment to take in all that has occured, is well-needed.

“And another bath to be drawn before,” he states. “You will be easy.” He turns his hand over and grips yours. “And ready for my return.”

#geralt of rivia #dark geralt #dark!geralt #geralt x reader #series #drabble #a barter #the witcher

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mimiii-3 · 3 months ago

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The Food Chain Pt.1

Yandere Platonic Batfam x Fem Reader

Notes: typical yandere themes

…

The overlapping chimes and songs of the games create a cacophony of excitement. You imagine that it mirrors the effect of the slot machines in Gotham’s seediest casinos.

The neon lights flash rapidly as you stalk down each isle of the arcade. Your day is made of soft reminders to not shake the claw machine or resetting a prize back to its starting position.

It’s not the most glamorous job but it feeds you. And you can’t deny the contentment your inner-child feels at living each day in a colorful arcade.

There’s normally two of you on these slow Thursday nights but it’s just you today. Camilla called in sick with the flu and there’s no one else to take her place.

The owner, Charlie, is an elderly man. With the deterioration of his joints and love for children, you know he won’t help out for the evening shift.

It’s not bad. Working the arcade by yourself makes you feel mature. You can prance around and act like you own the place for a few hours of independence.

The warm, orange and pink hues of the sunset melt through the large windows and illuminate the darkest corners of the arcade. With spring rolling around, the no-AC arcade feels warmer than usual.

It’s humid, but not enough that it makes you feel faint. You round the prize counter and take a quick swig from your dented water bottle.

That last family of three files out of the arcade with a quick ‘thank you.’ The little boy bounces away, arms full of stuffed animals he won in the claw machines.

“Have a nice day,” you chirp in your customer service voice. There goes the family of otters. They were quick and a bit noisy but they seemed sweet.

You like to assign everyone you see with an animal. The lady that lives next door, a mongoose. Charlie’s a penguin and Camilla is a rabbit.

You deemed yourself as a pig. Cute and smart but eats a lot of trash. That’s why Camilla and Charlie call you Ms. Piggy.

You look up at the clock to see how much longer you’re working today.

3 hours. It’s not very likely that the arcade will get busy on a Thursday evening so you settle into the white foldable chair in the corner of the prize area.

You pull out your phone and scroll lazily through your friends’ posts. They’re spending spring break in the Bahamas or France while you stay tucked away in Gotham.

You’re not jealous of their lavish lifestyle. But there’s a strange sense of loneliness you feel while gazing at the group pictures they take without you.

“Watch them act like they missed me,” you mutter bitterly. You can’t help but dread Monday morning when they will inevitably drone on about their fancy spring breaks.

Your murky thoughts are interrupted by the bell on the door ringing for new customers. You stand up from the chair and center yourself behind the counter. You put your best smile on and await the patrons.

Their light conversation grows closer and you sneakily eavesdrop on the approaching customers.

“-and Duke fell down both flights of stairs. You should have seen Bruce’s face, he looked like he was about to blow a gasket,” a gentle voice explains.

You hear another voice chuckle at the story, “God, I wish I was there to see that.”

You finally get to see the two as they make their way around the last coin-pusher. They’re two men, both raven-haired and polished.

The taller one has striking blue eyes and a mischievous expression. That one seems like a fox: cunning but still cute like a puppy.

The shorter one’s hair is messily combed through and he has dark circles under his eyes. That one feels like a stag, pretty but skittish.

The two spot you and hold your eye contact. You don’t yield to their intense gazes and widen your smile, “Hi! Welcome to Charlie’s Games. How many tokens?”

The fox’s smile widens and makes his way to the prize counter. He places his palms on the glass and leans on them to get a better look at you.

He taps his fingers rapidly against the glass, “This is actually the first time we’ve come here. How many tokens do you think we’d need to win big?”

The stag follows behind the fox and watches you carefully. You maintain your easy-going persona and reach under the counter.

They both stiffen at your movement. Their wide eyes and tightening fists let you know what they’re feeling.

“Relax guys. It’s not a gun, just a basket for the tokens,” you explain with a smile. Their bodies relax as you fill the basket with 40 tokens.

“40 tokens for twenty bucks. This should be more than enough to win big,” you jest.

The fox’s shoulders sag ever-so-slightly and the corner of his eyes crinkle. “Sorry we just,” he glances back at the stag and clears his throat, “y’know…this is Gotham after all.”

You nod at him and look between him and the stag. You raise your hands, “I get it. Gotham tends to be a nightmare but you can think of this place as a little escape from the guns and murder.”

“Thanks. That’s just what we need,” the stag speaks to you for the first time. He pulls at the left sleeve of his hoodie and tries to bite back a smile.

You snicker and they both look at you quizzically. “I’m sorry but you guys are so awkward, it’s adorable,” you cover your mouth with your hand as your laugh grows in volume.

They exchange a sheepish look and join in on your laughing. Your teary laughs die down and you sigh, “oh my gosh, I needed that laugh.”

“Us too,” the fox utters softly. The moment returns to its awkward beginning and you take it upon yourself to end the interaction.

“How about five more tokens - free of charge. That should make it impossible for you to walk away with nothing,” you say as you push the extra tokens across the counter.

The fox doesn’t say anything and just continues to smile down at you. The stag senses your discomfort and speaks up, “thanks again! We’ll be back for our prize.”

The stag picks them up and grabs the fox by his arm to lead him away. All while being pulled away, the fox watches you. You wave and offer a closed-eye smile to satisfy whatever it is he wants from you.

That seems to do the trick and the fox turns to walk with the stag over to the racing games. Once they’re out of sight, you slip into the employee-only room behind the prize wall.

You fall back onto the sofa and let out an obnoxiously loud sigh. That was…intense. They seem like cool dudes but man do they have a staring problem.

You turn on the couch and lay back against the arm rest. You resume your scrolling and pray that was the only awkward customer interaction you’ll have for the rest of your shift.

Your not exactly sure how much time passes as you scroll through Instagram and TikTok. Your unsolicited break is interrupted from the ring of the silver bell sitting on the main counter.

You slowly rise from the couch and stagger back to the door. Pushing aside the hanging beads, you take a quick peak at the clock. 20 minutes till closing, perfect.

The two men stand there with a handful of tickets. Their faces resemble those of children waiting at the door on Halloween.

“Wow! Looks like you two went all out. Let’s count em’,” you say cheerily. You take the tickets from their hands while making sure not to look them in the eyes.

You feed the tickets into the rickety machine. You purse your lips and stare up at the water-stained ceiling. ‘Just pretend like they’re not even there,’ you think.

After a minute or two, the receipt for their tickets pops out. You wrestle the receipt out of the machine before flipping it over and reading the number, “4,860 tickets. That means you get a yellow prize.”

You point up at the yellow-painted shelf and look back at the pair, “which one would you like me to get for you.”

“We don’t really have a preference. How about you pick one for us,” the stag blurts out before the fox can even open his mouth.

“Hmmm let’s see,” you muse. You scan the array of plushies on the self. There’s anything from a Chucky doll to an out-of-season reindeer.

Your eyes finally land on a pink glimpse tucked behind a ghost and mermaid plush. You go on your tiptoes and pull the plush off the shelf by its tag.

Interesting. It’s a pig. A pink, round-bellied pig wearing a monocle. Part of you contemplates putting it back, not wanting to offer up your twin to these two strangers.

But then again, you’ve already pulled it out and they’re watching your every move. You turn and hold out the pig to them, “here. This is what I’d choose if I were you two.”

“It’s cute,” the fox man says giddily. He plucks the pig right out of your hand and brings it close to his chest.

The stag rolls his eyes and places the token basket in front of you, “Thanks for the extra five tokens. I don’t think-”

“Do you work here everyday?”

The bizarre question stuns you into silence. You look over at the stag who’s bewildered expression must reflect your own.

“I’m so sorry. He’s weird,” the stag stumbles out an apology as he repeatedly elbows his friend.

The fox chuckles and rubs the back of his neck, “Sorry! Just ignore me. It’s been a long day.”

“I get that,” you nervously laugh. The sudden ringing of your phone draws your attention away from the two men.

“Oops! That’s my alarm. It’s time for me to close the arcade,” you sigh in relief.

“Oh great,” the fox speaks up, “we can walk you out.”

Normally, you would hate it if a random man offered to walk you somewhere….but this is Gotham. And being a young woman in Gotham is the same as walking around with a sign on your head that says ‘please murder me.’

You swallow down your pride, “that’d be great actually. Mind if I grab my things and lock up real quick?”

The two are quick to assure you to take all the time you need. It takes about eight minutes to run around the break room and collect your belongings.

You swing your purse onto your arm and skip out from behind the counter. You briefly introduce yourself and address the two men, “before we head out, what are your names?”

The fox puffs out his chest, “I’m Dick. This thing here is my kid brother, Tim.”

Dick the fox and Tim the stag. Neat.

Tim, previously known as the stag, rolls his eyes. “I prefer Tim and his idiot brother, Dick,” he huffs. The two start to slap each other and bicker over their perceived superiority.

You soften at their interaction, “you guys are lucky. I always wanted a brother.”

Their mini-brawl ceased instantly. Dick and Tim turn to look at you. You can’t read their expressions. Maybe you said something wrong?

“Ok, let’s go! I made you guys wait long enough,” you squeak.

You start to walk towards the exit with Dick and Tim in tow. You hold open the door for them and lock it behind the three of you.

In complete silence, Dick and Tim walk you to your car. It’s a dingy, little thing that looks like it’s five seconds away from combusting.

“This is me. Thanks for keeping me company during closing,” you say gratefully.

Before they can say anything, you speak once more, “I work here every Tuesday through Thursday. The rest of the week I’m in class.”

You’re not sure why you shared so much information. Maybe the only child in you got carried away by the sibling bond the two share.

Nevertheless, they seem relieved at your answer. “Perfect,” Dick responds, “we’ll be sure to come back with some more family.”

You nod appreciatively and climb into the driver’s seat. You roll down your window and wave bye to the pair as you exit the arcade parking lot.

You can see them waving back to you in your rear view mirror. You drive away feeling content. This might be the start of a beautiful friendship.

What you didn’t see was the tracker that Tim subtly threw into your backseat. Or Dick taking a picture of your license plate. Or the deluxe sports car tucked away in the corner of the parking lot.

…

Extra notes: I’m so excited to continue this fic

Tag list:

@jjsmeowthie @shawty-a-lil-baddie @butratherbutrather @shirp-collector-of-fixations @stove-top96 @yaoizee @bellethesleepypotato @salfishers @eli-mayhaveatencats @wisefuncherryblossom @c4xcocoa @twismare @icanmeltanigloo @tatsuri-zomushiki @wizzerreblogs @crazycaoticsimp @burningkittenprince @dakotali @vanilliona @galaxypurplerose

#dc x reader #dcu #batfam x reader #batsiblings #platonic batfam #yandere platonic batfamily x reader #yandere x reader #platonic yandere x reader #fem reader #yandere dc #yandere

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littlemissgloomexe · 8 months ago

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Mel and Astroid Destroyer doodle before I go to bed [GIR took the picture and added the caption obvi]

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littlexdeaths · 1 year ago

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what are friends for? - e.m.

best friend eddie munson x fem reader

18+ ONLY MDNI

warnings: period talk/period blood, eddie is the sweetest as always, grinding, fingering, one singular use of daddy

a/n: thank you to @callsignraver for the title idea 🤭 the eddie edit was made by me! you can use it, just please credit my side blog (strangergraphics), if you do. now enjoy xx.

“Come on, sweetheart. You can tell me,” he sounds so sincere, which is why you can’t even look at him.

Because looking at him would just open a set of floodgates that you aren’t prepared to deal with right now.

Looking at him is only going to fuel the fire that is raging in your lower abdomen— that was lit the moment you stepped foot in the trailer.

A fire that he’s been steadily stoking with each brush of his fingertips against yours as you reach for more popcorn. Or when his knee bumps casually into yours as he shifts on the small sofa.

Which for someone as fidgety as Eddie Munson— was a lot.

“I promise I’m not gonna laugh or anything, just tell me what’s wrong.”

Your best friend had been able to pick up on the shift in your mood almost immediately. But he chose not to comment on it until now, unable to handle it any longer.

But how in the hell were you supposed to tell him that it’s his fault? That he’s driving you crazy?

That you want nothing more than to have his fingers buried inside you?

“You wouldn’t get it,” you sigh, shifting your body further away from him on the sofa.

Clinging onto the arm for dear life as you pretend to watch the clash of light sabers on the tv screen.

His snort has your eyes rolling.

“Try me.”

Your hands move up to rub your temples, eyes slipping shut.

“It’s a dumb girl thing—”

He jumps up off the sofa before you can even finish your sentence, returning from the bathroom mere moments later with a bottle of Advil in tow.

Eddie doesn’t register your confused expression as he stands before you, holding out the bottle.

“Cramps, right?” he asks, a kind smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You feel embarrassed, because of course that’s what he would think. He’s heard you drone on and on about it over the years. He only wants to help, like the kind friend that is he is.

Friend, being the keyword here.

“I um…” you mumble, taking the bottle from his outstretched hand.

You attempt to ignore the heat that continues to pool in between your thighs as you stare at the veins protruding from his hand. The way his thick fingers were previously gripping onto the pill bottle.

How they would feel gripping your inner thighs….

No. Stop it.

You mentally scold yourself, chewing on your lower lip as he takes a seat on the sofa.

“I appreciate it, but that’s not the issue.”

Now he’s the one who looks confused, leaning forward as he scratches at the stubble on his jaw.

“Then what is it?” he prods.

Eddie knocks his knee into yours again, tingles shooting up your spine from the subtle touch.

“It’s just, I’m feeling…”

“Tired?”

“No.”

“Bloated?”

“No!”

“Hangry—”

“Horny!” you shout, startling you both, “I’m horny.”

Your voice has gone soft, a near whisper compared to your previous volume. The air around you is suddenly thicker, and you are once again unable to meet his gaze.

“Oh,” he says after a long pause.

“Yeah, oh.”

You feel the tips of your ears warming as you continue to stare down at your lap. The beginning chords of the imperial march are the only thing filling the uncomfortable silence between you.

“I mean, I could always help you,” he replies finally.

His words cause your eyes to shoot up in surprise, your head turning to meet his molten hues.

“That’s— I wouldn’t ask you to do that, Ed.”

His ringed hand suddenly reaches over to rest on your knee, fingers slipping beneath the rips in your jeans.

“What if I want to?”

Now you’re the one rendered speechless.

“What if I have wanted to… for a long time,” he continues, his other hand reaching up to cup your cheek.

His thumb brushes over your lower lip, determination in his eyes as he leans further into your space. You can’t help how your body gravitates towards him, your hands clutching onto the soft cotton of his t-shirt.

You can feel the way his breath mingles with yours, nicotine and movie theater butter. But it’s the flecks of honey in his eyes that break down your remaining defenses.

You answer him with a kiss, lightly pressing them to his. Testing the waters. Eddie eagerly deepens it, pulling you in closer until you’re in his lap. Your thighs bracket his hips, his hands encircling your waist.

The kiss becomes heated, faster than either of you are prepared for. You lower your hips harder onto his lap, inhaling his soft gasp as your bodies meld together. His grip tightens on your hips as you eagerly grind yourself against his crotch, welcoming the friction.

“Hold on, baby.” He groans again, his large hands stopping any further movement.

Baby.

He’s never called you that before.

Your lower lip juts out in a pout as he maneuvers you off of his lap, and back onto the soft cushions of the sofa. The male quickly sinks to his knees, his hands splaying across the tops of your thighs as he works himself between them. He chuckles at your expression, shaking his head slightly.

“Patience, pretty girl,” he hums as his hands slide further up your thighs until they reach the button on your jeans. “Let’s get these off, yeah?”

Your nerves suddenly kick back into gear, despite the flames continuing to lick your skin. Eddie has become so tuned into your emotions over the years that he can sense this new shift immediately. This was an emotion he has seen plenty of times, but it was never because of him.

The notion has his hands freezing as they hover over the closure of your jeans.

“Shit, did I do something wrong?”

You quickly shake your head, letting out a nervous laugh. “I just… don’t wanna make a mess.”

His expression softens as you gesture to the tan sofa beneath you. The male rises to his feet without another word, darting over to the laundry basket that is seated on top of their washing machine. He digs through a pile of clothes until he finds whatever he’s searching for.

A dark maroon towel.

He clutches the soft fabric in his hands as he makes his way back to you, resuming his previous position between your legs. He sets it next to you, his brown eyes nervously shifting between your thighs and your face.

“You can touch me, Eds,” you say, carefully taking his hands in yours to guide them up to the clasp on your jeans.

Eddie doesn’t need to hear anything else.

He makes quick work of removing your jeans, tugging the denim down your thighs. His eagerness has you giggling, the tops of his cheeks flushing a light pink even in the muted light.

He pauses for a moment, leaning back as he drinks in your newly exposed skin. His eyes darken even further as his calloused fingers grip the hem of your cotton panties.

“God, take them off— please,” you whine, no longer caring if you sound pathetic.

You’ve waited far too many years for this to happen, and your patience has finally run out. Eddie chuckles, sliding your panties (pad and all) down your thighs. The male carelessly tosses them over his shoulder, ignoring your small protest.

“Lift up,” he hums, motioning you to guide your hips up.

He easily slides the towel beneath you, letting your body relax against the plush material. Eddie gently rests his hands over the tops of your thighs once more, beginning to spread them even wider. Your cheeks warm as his eyes zero in on your core, whining softly as he licks his lips.

“Christ,” he breathes, inhaling deeply as he notes the way your arousal shines in the glowing light of the tv.

He leans back for a moment, dark eyes flicking up to meet your gaze as he slowly slides each of those gaudy rings off his fingers. Eddie takes his time in doing so, the clink of metal echoes in your ears as he gathers them in his palm.

“Gimme your hand,” he says softly, but the command in his voice lingers all the same.

You hold out your left hand towards him, ignoring the way it trembles as he begins to slide each of his large rings onto your fingers. His dimples indent his cheeks as he grins, carefully lifting your knuckles to his lips. He presses a soft kiss to each one, ensuring that he keeps his eyes trained on you as he does so.

“Keep those safe for me, sweetheart.”

He winks playfully, leaning forward to brush his lips over the bare skin of your shin. His hands hook under your knees, allowing you to drape your legs over his shoulders. His movements have slowed drastically, taking his time before his fingers finally dip between your thighs.

Your soft gasp spurs him on, his fingers running through your drenched folds. He gathers your arousal on his fingertips, dragging them up to encircle over your swollen bud. You let your body relax against the couch cushions, allowing your eyes to slip shut as he continues his gentle touches.

But as soon as his touch starts— it stops just as fast.

A whine spills past your lips as his large hands wrap around the meat of your thighs and squeeze.

“Eyes on me, baby,” he coos, pressing his lips to the curve of your knee.

His teeth lightly nip at the skin there, causing your eyes to flutter back open.

“Yes, sir,” you giggle as he groans.

His fingers are back on you before you have time to mention his reaction, circling your entrance before dipping inside slowly. It causes your breath to hitch, his middle finger able to stretch you out better than any of yours ever have.

Eddie curses under his breath as he adds another, your body almost greedily sucks him in. Your hand instinctively reaches forward to grip onto his bicep. The rings that adorn your hand are biting into his skin, the thought alone makes his jeans impossibly tighter.

“God, you’re so wet,” he moans, guiding his fingers even deeper inside you.

You reply with a soft whine, your thoughts entirely too jumbled to provide him with anything else. His eyes have momentarily dropped from your face to where his fingers are nestled inside you. He slides them back out, admiring the sticky pink mixture that’s coating his thick digits.

“Eddie, don’t tease,” you huff, guiding your hips back towards his awaiting hand.

Your impatient attitude has him chuckling, those dark hues flicking up to meet yours again.

“Oh, you want these back, baby?” He taunts, his other hand gripping onto your thigh as he eases three of the digits inside your entrance.

The brunette holds them there, enjoying the way your body begins to squirm beneath him. Taunting you.

“Go on, say it, sweetheart.”

He raises a brow at you, slightly pushing his fingers in deeper, before he quickly retracts them with your continued silence. Repeating the action.

“I want…” you start, but the curl of his fingers makes you lose your train of thought.

“Hmm, you want what?” he prods.

He completely removes them from your entrance, ignoring your pleading eyes as he slides them back up to dance around your clit.

Your soft mewl of his name does nothing to deter his actions, it only slows them.

“Come on, use that pretty little head of yours,” he hums as the tips of his fingers graze over your swollen bud.

“God, just— please!” your voice raises an octave, taking on a breathy quality.

The corner of his mouth pulls up in a smirk as he tilts his head at you. His fingers dip lower, circling over your puckered hole.

“Ya know, while I usually prefer something along the lines of master… or even daddy,” he muses, noting how your breath hitches.

“God, sure has a nice ring to it.”

His head falls back as he laughs, a playful pout adorning his lips as you swat at him. Those simmering embers have quickly morphed into a raging fire, ready to engulf you both in the flames.

“Eddie, I swear to God. If you don’t put those fingers back inside me, I will—“

The rest of your threat gets caught in your throat as he thrusts his fingers back in, a strangled moan takes their place.

“See, was that so hard, princess?” he teases.

You don’t answer him, instead grinding your hips down to meet his palm. Eddie pumps his fingers faster, his thumb pressing onto your clit. The wet squelch that follows has him moaning, nuzzling his face against your knee.

Your hand releases his bicep, slipping down his arm to tangle your fingers together. He holds them tightly, beginning to curl the others inside you. The calloused tips brush against your sweet spot, pulling another whine from your throat.

“Oh, right there,” you pant, chest heaving as his thumb firmly massages your clit.

That fire continues to burn brighter with each thrust of his fingers, ready to swallow you whole.

“That’s it,” he grins, watching in awe as you make a mess of his fingers, streaks of red and pink dripping down his knuckles.

“Makin’ such a mess f’me, baby.”

You barely register his words as your back arches up off the sofa. Your eyes squeeze shut as white hot pleasure bursts behind your eyelids. His rings dig into your skin from how tightly you’re grasping him, legs trembling as he coaxes you through your high.

Your ears are ringing as you finally collapse into the lumpy cushions, whining as he continues to gently thrust his fingers inside you.

“Come ‘ere,” you mumble, eyes fluttering open to meet his.

His cheek is smushed against your inner thigh, only breaking your heavy lidded stare to slide his fingers out of you. He hums, carefully lifting his fingers towards the dim light from the tv. He rubs them together, gazing in utter fascination at the sticky strings they leave behind.

You already miss his warmth, tugging playfully on his unruly curls to grab his attention. He chuckles, wiping his fingers on the towel beneath you before he’s hovering over your body. Hips pressed into yours, not caring if you make a mess on the front of his pants.

“Thank you,” you whisper, twirling one of his curls around your ringed finger.

“No need to thank me, sweetheart.” He grins down at you, his dark eyes almost sparkling.

“Besides…” he pauses, nuzzling his nose against your cheek. “What are friends for?”

tagging: @xxbimbobunnyxx @undead-supernova @munsonhoneybaby @hippiegoth97 @cinemabean @strangerstilinski @corrodedcorpses @curlyjoequinn @mugloversonly @eddiesxangel @hellfirenacht @splendiferous-bitch @razzeith @aleisashortcake @ali-r3n @eddie-is-a-god (i tried tagging you i promise 😭)

#the freak writes 🫧#eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson x fem reader #eddie munson x fem!reader smut #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x reader #eddie x you #eddie x reader #best friend!eddie munson x fem!reader #best friend!eddie munson #[ the munson files ]

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droneshotmediany · 11 months ago

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#DroneShots DRONEshotMedia 🌇 Capturing the Magic Hour in Albany #New York! 🌆 📸 Drone Shot Media brings you this breathtaking aerial panorama of Albany at sunset. The vibrant hues of the sky blend seaml #creating a mesmerizing view. 🌅 igphotography nature_photography droneofficial instadrone photographynature dronedaily dronegram dr

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thunderbolt-ing · 2 months ago

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"I Can't Do It Alone."

PART TWO PART THREE PART FOUR Pairing: Congressman Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader Summary: Who would've thought that you tearing panelists apart with merely your sharp words would land you a job? Or, better yet, here's how you became Congressman Barnes' legislative aide. Warnings: no warnings (or maybe use of Y/N?), just you being a political baddie and Bucky lowkey being down bad. A/N: lol this is my first fic on here and I'm so sorry in advance. this wasn't supposed to be an x reader fanfic because i had an original character in mind but idk if yall vibe with that. anyways, I'm in my bucky brainrot era I fear. no beta readers we die like taskmaster. Word count: 1703 words. She's short and sweet.

Brooklyn Veterans Policy Forum — Community Hall

“—Our proposal for enhanced persons is voluntary oversight programs, supplemented with community mental health partners, pending federal clearance…”

The panelist’s voice droned on, measured, thoroughly rehearsed, and bureaucratic. Amongst the seated crowd, you stood abruptly, the screech of your chair cutting through the hushed murmurs of the audience. Your brows were furrowed, your expression tinged in irritation as your eyes flickered from your notes to the table of panelists onstage.

“Which basically translates to a surveillance leash dressed up with a nicer PR team,” you said, voice steady but edged with frustration. “Is that about right?” The room stilled. The moderator blinked at you, seemingly at a loss for words as they were thrown off-script and unsure of how to respond. You didn’t care, nor did you wait. “Tell me, how many of you up there have actually sat across someone who’s reliving battlefield trauma every time they close their eyes?” you asked, voice rising slightly. “Because I have. Dozens of times. And they’re not worried about policy language. They’re worried about making it through the night.” Silence filled the room, and you swore you could hear a pin drop. Finally, the moderator found their voice and cleared their throat. “Thank you for your input, Miss…?” “Y/N L/N,” you replied crisply as you offered a tight-lipped smile, then continued with a practiced calm that came from too many ignored voices.

“I work in veteran reintegration,” you continued. “So unlike most people,” you cast a pointed glance at the panelist who had spoken, “I actually talk to the people your bills affect.”

Murmurs rose from the audience, a few heads nodded while others looked away.

From a seat near the back wall, Congressman James Buchanan Barnes leaned forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees. His eyes, sharp and steady, were fixed directly on you. There was no judgment in his expression, just deep, quiet intrigue. He watched as you, armed with nothing but a voice and unabashed conviction, dismantled a room full of sanitized policy with surgical precision. You didn’t know it yet, but you had just made an impression on a man who rarely let anyone in and seldom let anyone surprise him. Not until now. Later That Evening Outside the Community Hall's brick steps. You tugged your coat tighter around yourself as you emerged into the cool evening air. The sky was painted in muted hues of blue and pink as the sun slowly sank into the horizon. The last remnants of adrenaline from the forum still buzzed in your blood like static, and though the subway beckoned you home, your feet had something different in mind. You needed air and time to let your thoughts breathe. You hadn't expected a familiar voice behind you. "You've got a sharp mouth, L/N." You turned instinctively, your guard up, but it dropped quickly when you recognized him. James Buchanan Barnes, or rather, Congressman Barnes. The former Winter Soldier turned unlikely lawmaker. What a pipeline, you thought with a sarcastic internal chuckle. He looked nothing like the suited representatives who spoke from podiums inside. He had no tie, sleeves rolled up beneath a plain navy coat, the two buttons of his white shirt undone like he hadn't bothered to play the part today. Still, there was no mistaking him. It was the way people moved around him without realizing it, the way silence followed him like a second shadow. "So I've been told," you replied, your brow arching as you gave him the same look you'd served to the panelists earlier. "Didn't think I'd get feedback from someone sitting in the cheap seats." He smirked at that, just barely, "I wasn't cheap. I just didn't want to be seen." A beat passed as you let the tension simmer in the air. It wasn't hostile, it was electric. Curious even. "You meant what you said back there?" He asked, his voice quiet and almost unreadable, "About talking to people the bills affect?"

A breeze rustled past, and you reached up to tuck a loose strand of your hair behind your ear. You studied him, your eyes sharp and unreadable. "I don't grandstand. I sit across from them every week." He nodded slowly as if each of your words carried weight, "I don't trust most policy people," he admitted. "They talk like they've never bled for anything." "And you're assuming I have?" You asked, not defensively but curious as to where he was going. "I think you've seen enough to stop pretending things are neat." You were quiet for a second, his words lingering like smoke. "You always vet people like this?" "Only the ones I'm considering hiring." You blinked at him for a few moments, unable to process his words as quickly as you wanted. "Excuse me?" He gestured toward the street with a tilt of his head. "Come walk with me. I want to talk about something." "Very subtle," you muttered, your tone dipped in sarcasm, yet your feet moved on their own accord, falling into step beside him. He let out a laugh, low and dry, more of a huff than anything. "Just trying a new thing called being direct." For the first time that day, you laughed. Not the polite kind that you often gave to people. The genuine one. It caught you off guard. "So... James Barnes—" "—Bucky." He interrupted gently. "Right, Bucky," You corrected yourself, testing the name on your tongue as you walked with him, your expression thoughtful. "What are you trying to hire me for exactly...?" "I want you to rewrite the rules with me," he said plainly, "From the inside." "You're serious." "Deadly." You fell into contemplative silence. You wanted to say yes immediately. Who wouldn't? But you had a life. A job. People who relied on you on a daily basis. Change wasn't something you embraced easily, and he could tell. He didn't try to push or pitch, instead, he simply reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small business card. It was plain, black text on white cardstock. No logo. No frills. Just his name and phone number. It looked like something someone made in a rush, probably on Microsoft Word. He handed you the card, his blue eyes piercing into yours, tired and almost pleading. "Why me?" You asked, unsure whether it was skepticism or hope in your voice. "Because this city, this country, needs someone who gives a damn." He paused, his gaze unflinching. "And because I can't do it alone." A Few Days Later Brooklyn — Your apartment.

After a long, tiring, yet undeniably fulfilling day at work, you trudged up the steps of your apartment building with the kind of exhaustion that settled deep within your bones. Your bag slipped down your shoulder, and your eyes blinked against the hallway's dim lighting as you shuffled toward your door. All you could think about was kicking off your shoes and collapsing onto your couch for five minutes of stillness.

But then you stopped.

There, lying at the foot of your door, was a bouquet.

You blinked again, slower this time, as if you weren't entirely sure that what you were seeing was real. The flowers sat neatly against the well-worn doormat, delicate, beautiful, and completely unexpected. You examined the bouquet further; it was a soft arrangement of baby's breath, pink tulips, pink roses, and subtle touches of eucalyptus leaves wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. It was elegant, but understated, like whoever sent them wanted to make a point without fussing too much.

You crouched down carefully, the weight of your day momentarily forgotten as you picked them up. As you shifted the bouquet in your hands, a small folded piece of paper slipped free and fluttered softly to the floor.

Frowning in confusion, you bent to retrieve it while carefully cradling the bouquet in the crook of one arm.

It was a simple note, no envelope, no dramatics. Just a few lines written in unfamiliar handwriting.

Policy means nothing without people who stand behind it unflinchingly. You speak the truth, even when it's uncomfortable, and I couldn't look away. I don't believe in perfect timing, only in showing up. So, this is me, showing up. Let me know if you'll meet me halfway. —Bucky Barnes

You stared at the words, your thumb brushing over the dried ink as if it might somehow help you make sense of them. The edges of your mouth curled up as if caught somewhere between disbelief and something that felt dangerously like hope and possibility. How he'd found your address, you weren't sure. You suppose you shouldn't be surprised, given his history. If Bucky Barnes wanted to find you, he would. Not in a threatening way, but in that quiet, purposeful way he did everything, like he wasn't going to wait for the world to make sense before acting. You leaned against your front door, flowers still in hand, as you reread the note several times.

He wasn't trying to charm you. He was offering a seat at the table. A voice in the room where things actually changed. Not just to be near the fire, but to help decide how and where it burned. You stuck the note carefully inside your pocket, the corners of your lips tugging into a soft, unguarded smile. The bouquet was still cradled in your arm, but your thoughts were already sprinting ahead of you. You stood there for a moment in the quiet hallway, his words still ringing in your head. Then, taking a small breath out, you shifted the flowers to one side and rummaged through your bag, fingers searching until they closed around your phone. With a steady hand, you tapped his number on the screen, the same one that was printed in that boring business card he'd given you. You brought the phone to your ear. It only rang twice. "Hello?" His voice was low, familiar, and uncharacteristically careful, like he didn't want to hope too much. "Hey," you said softly, "It's me." There was a moment suspended between you. "About time." He replied, and you could almost envision his smile through the phone.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

End Note: AAAA IM SORRY ITS SHORT BUT I CAN MAKE A PART TWO IF YOU GUYS LIKE IT ENOUGH!!!!!

Also, the flowers I chose were just random ones i thought in my head but then i remembered that language of flowers thing and so I looked it up and..... guys..... Baby's breath: everlasting love, new beginnings. Pink tulips: Affection, good wishes, and love. Pink roses: admiration, respect for someone close. Eucalyptus: strength and protection. brb I'm gonna sob <3

#marvel #mcu #thunderbolts #thunderbolts*#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes #congressman barnes #the thunderbolts

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alwerakoo · 16 days ago

Text

''Everything you're looking for''

TMNT 2012 Donatello x Casey Jones first kiss, 3k words

Art by @nerdy-turtle-enthusiast

Read on AO3

---

Donnie never really liked fireworks.

He didn't like a lot of things growing up, and he's almost certain it's one of those things that come with growing up with four brothers and clawing his way into any sort of individuality he could afford at the time.

Looking at them now, they seem pretty alright.

“You know,” Casey tells him, shouting over the noise, “I kind of blame you for this.”

He's walking backwards, his sneakers unsteady on the wet grass, and Donnie has to resist the urge to jab his staff into his ankles until he trips.

“You wanted to see how far it could go,” he huffs. “And if we programmed it like how I wanted to in the first place, this wouldn't be an issue.”

He knows it's true, and the pitiful remains of what's left of their drone that he's holding onto are proof enough.

It looks like it went down hard, hitting a tree or four on its way. It's a little hard to look at.

Donnie's inventions are creatures of hard labor and effort, and seeing them beaten down always makes something bitter boil in his chest.

He shifts, moving to hide the jagged plastic and metal in the bag slung over his shoulder.

“If we did it how you wanted to, it wouldn't even take off,” Casey says.

“I'm going to drown you in a lake.”

Casey tilts his head back in laughter, almost drowned out by the distant fireworks.

Their search for the drone drove them further away than they anticipated, and Donnie doesn't feel particularly surprised that his family started out the New Year's celebration without them.

It's exactly what they threatened to do, and he supposes the only thing to blame would be Casey Jones, his dumb ego, and inability to rationally judge distances.

It's the sort of thing that would've made him a mess of anxiety and anger just a few years back, but now it only leaves him with dejected acceptance.

He's not sure why he even followed, now that he thinks about it.

It was Casey's idea to fly it out, his idea to chase after it when it broke down, and Donnie followed him without a second thought.

Maybe he just wanted to prove him wrong.

Casey turns around, staring ahead at the lake in the distance. All the sparks and smoke leave a sort of shimmering hue over the water, and Donnie watches it ripple as they walk.

“Bummer they didn't wait for us,” Casey says.

“You wouldn't wait for them,” Donnie notes.

“I'm gonna shove our drone down Raph's throat for this.”

Donnie laughs.

Casey isn't really funny as much as sometimes he says things that are so crude, there is really no other way to react.

It drove Donnie crazy a few years back, in that way most things Casey said or did used to.

His brothers used to tease him for it, and looking back, Donnie can't say he blames them. Sometimes, it really seemed like Casey occupied more of his thoughts than even April.

“What are you thinking about?” The question leaves Donnie's mouth without much intention, like a lose thread from the tapestry of his thoughts, and he almost catches himself off guard with it.

Casey turns to look at him over his shoulder, eyebrows raised.

“What?”

“You've been quiet, which means you're thinking,” Donnie says. It's an honest observation, and it leaves him feeling a little silly. Quickly, he adds: “This doesn't happen often.”

Casey gives him a look.

He's been looking at Donnie a lot over the past few months, and he's starting to think it's something on his face.

“I'm thinking of something April said,” his friend answers, finally. The sky ahead clears out slowly, the sudden bursts of color less and less frequent, and their walk slows, all the hurry gone from it. “She said New Year's always makes her think of the one before. And how things change and all that shit.”

“I'm not sure she worded it like this,” Donnie says.

“She also said you sucked ass,” Casey adds. “And I was like 'April, why would you say that-'” Donnie leans forward, pushing at the back of Casey's arm, making him stumble. “Ow, okay, alright, you bitch.”

“And are you thinking of last year?” Donnie asks, a little more serious.

Casey shrugs.

“I guess.”

They spent the last New Year's much like this one – huddled together at the lake near the Farmhouse.

It was the end of Casey's and April's first semester in college, and it made the whole thing feel very grand and very grown-up, for whatever it was worth.

Donnie got to light up the fireworks last year.

“And also of, like, when we first came here, you know?”

Donnie feels his mouth pull into a frown. He doesn't particularly like thinking about that part of his life.

Their first visit to the Farmhouse filled him with bitterness, anger, and grief that took years to outgrow.

“I do.” He hopes his tone is enough to make Casey draw back from that specific line of thought.

“Can I tell you something?”

Donnie can't say no to him, but there's some old sadness leaking into his every breath, and he hopes it's not showing as much as he fears it does.

“Sure.”

Despite it, Casey doesn't say anything for a moment longer. He slows down to walk beside Donnie now, one hand shoved into his jacket, the other fidgeting with the cuff of his sleeve.

“I was really...” He starts, then stops again. “It was really shitty. When Leo was still recovering and all. And I just- You made me feel a lot better then. And I guess I never thanked you for that. So. Thanks, I guess.”

Donnie blinks.

Casey's refusing to look back at him, but it doesn't stop him staring.

“I made you feel better?” He questions. “Weren't we fighting, like, all the time?”

He has some good memories from that time, and when he thinks about it now – Casey's in a lot of them. But there's such a large shadow Shredder cast over that part of their lives that it's hard to focus on any of the bright parts.

“Well, yeah, but that was, like, part of the fun. Distracted me and all that.” Casey shrugs. Then he smiles a little, almost just to himself. “And we weren't fighting all the time.”

Donnie's not sure what's that supposed to mean.

He frowns, mind racing back to that time.

“I think-” He starts, then hesitates.

It's the kind of raw honesty that seems to come naturally to Casey but not Donnie.

But it's a cold night, the air smells vaguely like smoke and ozone, and the fact that Casey can't see as well in the dark as he does makes him feel a little braver.

“You were a nice distraction, too.”

Casey doesn't answer.

But he walks a little faster, leaving Donnie behind again, like he wasn't really expecting an honest answer from him, and it made him lose his nerve.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” he huffs under his breath.

There's this weird little thing Casey does sometimes – hand clenched into a fist, his thumbnail scratching at the skin of his knuckles.

Donnie's known him long enough to know it means he's lying, or trying to hide something, or both, and it makes the corners of his mouth curl upwards.

They walk in silence for a moment longer, interrupted only by the sudden noise and burst of light far ahead, until Casey finally says:

“You know what really sucks?”

“Global warming?” Donnie jokes, fidgeting with the strap of his bag.

“No, I like summer.” He says it in that tone where Donnie can never tell if he's being serious or not. “We missed the countdown, and there aren't even any hot girls for me to kiss here.”

Donnie asked April if she thought Casey would be a good kisser a few years back, in a strange surge of jealousy that he was desperate to hide under nonchalant teasing.

She gave him a look that made him scared to open his mouth for the rest of the day.

He's probably not.

Donnie wouldn't know.

“April's here,” Donnie notes, amused at the wince that twists Casey's face.

“I'm not suicidal,” he says, oddly serious. “I mean girls who want to kiss me.”

“Oh, I'm sure there are plenty of girls throwing themselves to kiss you back in New York,” Donnie teases.

He says it more out of principle than any actual malice. He and Casey don't really talk about that kind of stuff anymore – thank God – but he wouldn't be surprised to see his friend with a girl back home.

Casey Jones is handsome in a way that requires a little imagination and a lot of 'if's. If he combed out his hair, washed his face for once and maybe got rid of that awful bandana – he'd be pretty good-looking.

Donnie heard of some girls that took on harder challenges.

But then he wouldn't look much like Casey Jones after all, and there's a part of Donnie that finds that perspective strangely disappointing.

“Oh, you know it,” Casey says.

His voice sounds a little strained; he's tilting his head up to the sky to follow the fireworks. Donnie watches the way his hair falls down past his ears, brushing over the back of his neck.

(Pretty good-looking indeed.)

They watch what must be the last of the fireworks explode in a flurry of reds and oranges, the sky lighting up for the last time tonight.

There's a strange sort of silence that follows after it.

“But alas,” Casey sighs. “No hotties here.”

“Aw, rude,” Donnie says. “I'm right here.”

It's a joke, and he makes sure his voice sounds light with it. Casey turns to look at him.

And then he stops.

He falters, his feet catching against each other, arms shifting awkwardly to keep his balance.

Donnie reaches out instinctively, grabbing onto Casey's elbow to hold him in place.

“Wow, watch where you're going,” he half-whispers. Some honest worry slips into his tone, and he quickly adds: “Slugger.”

He's been catching himself doing that more and more lately.

Casey is his friend, and it's been years since Donnie felt petty enough to make him doubt that, but there's a part of him that shies away from this sort of honest vulnerability.

He's an old dog, and he's not used to new tricks; rolling over like this – neck bared.

He wonders if he should ask Casey if he's okay, or if that would make it all somehow feel even more awkward, like he's fifteen again, and every little thing he does comes wrapped in four layers of second thoughts and doubts.

Except he's not really sure Casey is listening to him anymore, actually.

His eyes are wide, nose and cheeks red from the cold air. They've all grown over the last few years – Donnie and his brothers more so than others. He's almost a full head taller than his friend, and the tilt of Casey's neck makes him feel every inch of that difference.

He wants to pull back, suddenly unsure on his own feet, but Casey reaches out, grabbing onto his arm.

His hands are cold.

“Sorry?” Donnie says, almost like a whisper.

It's a strange moment, and it makes him a little afraid to speak up, like any sudden noise would shatter-

Whatever this is.

“You know,” Casey says finally, voice low and quiet. “I always thought-”

He doesn't finish.

He pulls his other hand out of his pocket, reaching out to Donnie's shoulder. He grabs the ends of his mask, smoothing the material between his fingers.

He doesn't pull on it.

Donnie leans down either way.

Casey looks lost in thought, fingers brushing against the side of Donnie's neck.

His pupils are wide, gaze fixed on Donnie's face.

Like he's waiting for something, looking for something, wanting to say something-

Something.

Donnie can give him something.

It's l'appel du vide, and it takes him a moment to fully make sense of his own thoughts, his own movements. It's the urge to drive his car off the road, and then the mind-numbing coldness after actually doing it.

It's something he didn't know he wanted to do until the wheel was in his hand, and he can feel his arms tense – braced for the impact.

He leans further down, his knees bending and their faces close.

“You always thought what?”

Casey doesn't answer.

There's a strange sort of awe on his face, like he's been staring up at the night sky the entire evening, and yet somehow – this is still his favorite view.

And then they're kissing, and Casey has his hands all over his face, arms, pressed against the back of his neck. Donnie can feel his own pulse under Casey's thumb, his heart drumming against his ribs like a thunderstorm.

Kissing Casey, Donnie realizes, is pushing his knee against the steering wheel – both hands busy; it's oil stuck under fingernails after a long night in the garage; it's going 100 in a 70; and it's every jealous, bitter thought he ever had at fifteen.

It's strange to imagine he ever wanted to go on without knowing how it feels.

Casey pulls away first, his thumbs pressed into the soft spot behind Donnie's jaw. His hands are rough and dry, boyish and a little sweaty, and Donnie hopes he never lets him go.

“I didn't know-” He sounds breathless, a little dazed, and Donnie leans in again to kiss the words right off his mouth. “Wow.” Casey tilts his head back again, eyes wide in the dark. “I didn't know you were-”

“Yeah,” Donnie interrupts him again. His jaw shifts under Casey's touch. “Well, me neither.”

It's not the full nor even the most honest truth, but it's one that feels most fitting for the moment.

They linger for a moment, both unsure.

Donnie wants to kiss him again. Because he's afraid if he doesn't, he might never get the chance to. Because he wants to. Because he wants him.

But he stays still, his fingers awkwardly pressed into Casey's side. He's wearing a leather jacket, and it makes Donnie's hands feel especially clumsy and wet.

“That's-” They're so close he can still feel Casey's breath on his face. “Do you-”

He doesn't get to finish.

There's a loud buzz coming from Casey's pocket, followed by an obnoxious ringtone, and it makes both of them flinch.

“Shit,” Casey curses.

Then he curses again, coming up with a rather eloquent string of crude words as he reaches into his pocket.

Donnie pulls away to let him, but Casey puts one hand on top of his, like he wants to keep him there.

Donnie's not sure it's a fully conscious gesture, but he doesn't fight him on it.

“Sorry, it's Raph,” Casey says, his face pale blue from his phone screen. “He's asking where we are.”

“Oh,” Donnie says.

He's standing a little further back now, his knees and back straight, but one hand still on Casey's side.

It's awkward.

“Sorry, I'm... Sorry.” He shoves the phone back into his pocket.

“Okay,” Donnie says. Then: “Happy New Year.”

Casey looks at him like he just pulled off a magic trick.

“What?”

“Is that not what you're supposed to say after the kiss?”

He can feel Casey tense under his touch.

“Oh,” he says, voice high and thin. Then he laughs. “I- No, yeah, I guess. Fucking hell.”

He's fumbling.

Casey's a delicate machine of fake bravado and false confidence, and it's fascinating to watch it break down so easily.

In a car crash sort of sense.

“Man.” He combs his fingers through his hair, looking everywhere but at Donnie. He still doesn't pull away from the touch. “This is so weird. I'm sorry, I don't know why- I don't know why I did that.”

It's very like Casey to take credit for Donnie's actions. He almost says that out loud but thinks better of it in the last moment.

He finally pulls his hand back, flexing his fingers. Casey's shoulder moves in a strange way, like he wants to stop him, but then doesn't. Instead, he says:

“We should get back, they're gonna worry.”

It sounds like he wanted to say something else entirely.

“Sure,” Donnie answers.

He feels a little dazed and foggy, and he's almost certain he'd follow Casey anywhere in this state.

They stand still for a moment longer despite it.

Casey's flushed and tense, not just from the cold, and it makes something strange twist in Donnie's gut.

“You know what, let's just...” Casey interrupts himself, biting on his lip. He's been doing that a lot tonight. “How about we just pretend this never happened?”

And for a moment, there's a snap of something hot and angry in Donnie's chest; something a few years younger and elbows deep in insecurity and self-doubt.

For a moment, he almost says: no.

And then he looks a little closer.

Casey's nervous, gaze fixed on his own feet.

Donnie watches his thumb scratch over the skin on his knuckles.

It's an invitation; a game he's not sure Casey knows they will be playing yet.

He and Casey are best friends in the same way they used to be rivals – with unapologetic passion and everything they have.

Donnie's willing to take him up on this, too. Whatever it may be.

“Okay,” he lies.

“Okay?” Finally, Casey looks up at him.

For a split second, he almost looks disappointed. It's all Donnie needed to know.

He leans down again, their foreheads almost touching; one hand on Casey's arm so he doesn't stumble.

“You're welcome, by the way. For the distraction.”

Then, just as quickly, he straightens, puts a palm to Casey's forehead, and with only half of his strength – pushes back.

“Hey!” Casey groans, raising a hand to rub at his face, looking over his shoulder when Donnie moves to pass him. “Oh, you're such an asshole. That was a vulnerable moment, don't use it against me.”

The air feels light again, and there's something warm and heavy sitting right between Donnie's ribs.

He can hear Casey follow him, his footsteps light on the grass.

“Yeah, well, that was your second mistake.”

Donnie watches the water on the lake, still and dark blue under moonlight.

He wonders what kissing Casey there would feel like.

(He wonders if Casey will let him find out.

He thinks the answer might be yes.)

“What was the first?”

Silently, Donnie reaches for his bag, raising it up to shake the pathetic remains of their drone.

Behind him, Casey laughs.

#tmnt 2012 #jonatello #casey jones x donatello #ff #teenage mutant ninja turtles #fanfiction #tmnt donatello #casey x donnie #teenage mutant ninja turtles 2012 #caseytello

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