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harbourslighthouse · 2 days ago

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Asphalt In My Lungs (Jason Todd)

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There are mentions/implications of past abuse & neglect, so be wary of that if that is an issue for you. The story itself is mildly angsty, but it's not severely depressing. You don't necessarily need to read it for future stories, but it does give a lot of information about the reader and sort of 'sets the tone' of things.

For just a little context, I take different details from different mediums of the DC universe. I use aspects from the animated movies, the Christopher Nolan films, and the Arkham video games. Don't regard my stories as 100% canon compliant.

I hope you enjoy, it is a bit of a long one, but I put my heart and soul into this as it's one of my first stories that I'm publishing here.

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It’s 2005, and since you can remember, Gotham City has been made of barbed wire and blood. It crawls like something alive, writhing with sin and grime. The Wayne Enterprises tower sits in the center of Miagani Island, a pulsing beam of light that’s meant to mean something, yet those who live in the darkest slums see it only as a mocking sentinel glowing down on them.

You wonder if Bruce should have made a symbol of good out of his own name, instead of creating the masked entity: the Batman.

Maybe then, he would have done something.

You know the darkness that seeps out of Gotham intimately. Born and bred on Miagani Island—the most urban of the three islands—you grew up in a desolate street, in a desolate house. The school you went to was just as dull, with teachers that hated their jobs, and school kids that shoved each other off slides and dunked heads down toilets. You remained a hidden thing, invisible to most.

Gotham City remains a corrupted landmark on the map, often pointed at with the resolute statement, ‘That place? We can’t possibly live there. It’s filthy and the crime rate is insane.’ If anyone asked you, as a Gothamite yourself, if it was worth the ridiculously low rent prices, you’d shake them by their shoulders, shove them towards their car, and tell them to drive away as far as possible.

Yet, you can’t bring yourself to hate the city. You’ve seen its most hideous parts; the trash littered alleyways with burning barrels and tents made of scrap fabric and metal; the rat infested houses along the edge of the Narrows that are half crumbling into the murky water that surrounds the small isle; gang spots stained with blood after a deal goes wrong. Gotham City is many things to many people, but it’s different for you.

Gotham City, to you, is made of memories.

As a young child, you hadn’t been blessed with a sweet home full of warmth and love, the kind you see in the sitcoms that only aired at specific times. Not that you watched much of those, anyway. No, yours had been an empty echo of bitterness and split lips. Yours had buried a hole in your chest as something ugly and not worth thinking about, something scabbed over or fully scarred. So you only remember parts of it on the worst of days, when you’re paralysed by something you can’t name.

Shouting rings from the open window, and there’s a dull pang of surprise that there isn’t a jagged hole in the glass. By now, they start throwing mugs, or plates. Whatever is closest.

Your back digs into the screen door, and you pull your knees up to your chest as you sit and wait on the porch. They locked the door, and there’s no other way for you to slip into your room. The window out back is too high for you to reach, and your arms aren’t strong enough to push yourself up to the windowsill.

You’re not sure when the dull emptiness had begun to set in, but even at this age, you know violence and normalcy should not co-exist together. But, you’re only fourteen. There’s not much that you can do.

A glass shatters, the shrill noise making you flinch. It’s the first of many broken pieces of porcelain, so you haul yourself up onto your feet with a silent huff, feeling the burn of tears. You slip your backpack over your shoulder again, and hop down the wooden steps.

The street is mostly empty. Trash flutters out from underneath parked cars, and the smell of dust and exhaust fumes is thick and heavy. You walk with steady steps, although your gaze keeps falling to the brick-laid sidewalk. There’s a horrible pressure in your chest, like something has lodged itself into the space between your lungs. You count the crosses on your sneakers and pray that they stop shouting soon, so that you can come back home before it’s dark.

Memories are often distorted the older you get. It’s usually the cloudy, grey days that render you in bed for hours. Laying amongst rumpled bed sheets with your hair still styled from the day before, your mind casts a line back into the past, hoping to reel in some sort of closure that you’ve been chasing for years.

You’re not sure why, but during these days when you can’t get out of bed, and your eyes flicker across the gritty texture of your ceiling, you often think about the second home you were introduced to—a home that was given to you when your hand slipped into that of a billionaire celebrity’s, whose eyes held secrets.

The muted sound of gravel crunching seems louder than your heartbeat as the car pulls into a broad driveway. You lean to the side, temple pressed against the car window, and your lungs clench in awe.

Large and imposing, a stately mansion made of pale brown bricks, numerous windows, and pointed roofs, sits as a giant backdrop of wealth amongst the vibrant green lawns that stretch onward for miles. You blink rapidly, hand curling around the metal door handle as the engine becomes silent. You climb out slowly, the chill air pushing against your cheeks. Your worn shoes are thin at the bottom, and you can feel the pressure of gravel and pebbles against your heels, but you can’t seem to care as you numbly walk closer to the entrance of the mansion. The structure towers above you, and you can’t help but wonder if it’s as intimidating on the inside as it is on the outside. It reminds you of all the large estates you’d seen in the history books (ones that hadn’t been scribbled over with sharpie).

The butler, or Alfred, as you’ve come to know, strides past you with his measured steps, and opens the double doors made of wood as dark as dirt. He waits patiently inside, grey eyes cast over your awe-struck face. He nods his head, urging you to step across the threshold.

Swallowing thickly, you walk past him and feel the air in your lungs escape in a silent gasp. Thick, velvet carpet cushions your feet and stretches down a large hall, hiding away wooden floorboards that shine as if wet. Gilded paintings are hung on either walls, portraits and landscapes in oils. Vases sit neatly on tables with clusters of flowers, and a chandelier hangs above the room in glittering crystal and electric candles.

You’re sure if you could see yourself, you’d be amused at the slack-jaw expression on your face as your eyes trace across the dark, polished interior of the house, sliding along the gleaming banisters of the grand staircase that must lead to even more exuberant displays of wealth. Was the owner a king? Or perhaps a lord from the 1700s? You nearly forgot all about the man that had smiled at you a day ago, and that you’d meet him again today.

You hear Alfred clear his throat from behind you, and you swivel towards him, hands awkwardly clasped at your middle as if you’d been caught in the act of something. Your heart flutters as his eyes crease with a silent smile, and he strides past you through an arched doorway, and you follow quietly behind, unaware of just how different things will be from now on.

You wonder if there’s something you’re searching for in that memory, with how many times you come back to it, but as the days stretch in a linear line of routines and phone calls, you shove it to the far side of the shelf, where it remains stationary and covered in dust.

If you’re being honest with yourself, the state you’re in emotionally isn’t stable. You’re very good at hiding it, though memories and heartache trail after you like rumours, wrapping around your throat some days and sending unshed tears to gather in your eyes. Despite those days, you have a life that you can’t ignore or leave behind. You have a regular job as a secretary—nothing fancy—and interestingly, you can’t bring yourself to complain about it. You assist a defense attorney in the Department of Justice, and you’ve found that law, despite what many say, is quite entertaining to someone who isn’t directly involved with the legal proceedings.

And you’ve made some friends, although you’re not sure if it’s an official thing or something you’ve decided on your own. Commissioner Gordon is kind to you, tilts his head when he sees you sitting at your desk, and gives you a mustached smile, auburn hair curling around the corners of his lips. He once brought you a coffee, tired eyes glancing your way with a softly spoken greeting. You wonder if he noticed the way you’d been able to smile after feeling like your face had gone numb. You wonder if he remembers how you looked six years ago in a purple and yellow suit.

The trek back to your apartment is notorious for bringing up unwanted snippets of a life long-gone. You see Bruce’s face in the passing men in business suits and finely tailored coats. Reflections of grey-haired gentlemen makes you think of Alfred with his creased eyes and dry, sarcastic humour. The occasional red sweater nearly sends you choking on air as flashes of a boy embellished with wonder and pride strikes your mind viciously.

Alfred leads you into a kitchen, and again, you are in awe of the gleaming tiles beneath your feet, the pristine cupboards with glass fronts that let you see the polished crockery inside. As Alfred disappears into the hall outside again with a gentle instruction for you to stay put, you stand idly at the end of a long, white-washed table that gives you the impression of a beach-house dining room. It then strikes you that there’s probably a grand dining room elsewhere in the mansion.

A rustling sound scratches at your ears and you turn just to see a second doorway at the opposite side of the room creak open—a doorway that blends seamlessly into the tan coloured wall. You’re rendered dumbly staring at a boy around your age, whose own eyes stare back at you in silent shock. In his arms, he cradles a packet of crackers and…a loaf of sliced bread.

Your gaze flicks between the contents in his arms and his widened eyes, before you clear your throat awkwardly and flick your hand in a tiny wave.

“Hi,” you say quietly, and you wonder if the words are loud enough to even reach him.

Your voice seems to snap him out of his surprise, and he blinks rapidly, straightening.

“Hello,” he says in a voice that sounds forcefully deep, as if he were trying to sound bigger, stronger than what he looks. He’s tiny. Thin and bony, short even. You wonder if he actually is near your age, or much younger.

Thick, black hair shifts atop of his head as he glances swiftly around the room, as if searching for someone else to explain your sudden appearance. Then he looks back at you with eyes that seem largely intelligent, yet skeptical, and you get the impression he’s silently sizing you up, or studying you. What he intends to find, you don’t know.

You step back as he resolutely shuffles the crackers and bread in his arms to better fit in his hold, and makes his way to you, socked feet padding across the tiles. Watching mutely, he drops the items on the table with little care, the bread falling lopsided with a squishy thud. He turns to you fully and sticks his pale hand out to you.

“I’m Jason Todd,” he says stiffly, jade-coloured eyes flickering across your profile.

You glance at his hand with bated breath, noticing the red sweater he’s wearing has sleeves that are too long and cover most of his hand other than his fingers.

Hesitantly, you curl your hand around his, palm to fabric, and shake it with little strength or enthusiasm. Like a wide-eyed deer, you feel as if you’ve met a grinning wolf with eyes that are kinder than what nature usually permits.

You smile weakly and give him your name.

That memory leaves you with something throttling your heart, until you’re sure you might just pass out on the side of the street. That’s never happened before, but there’s always the possibility.

Usually, you’re able to reign in these flashes of the past, and you’re largely successful as the days go by. Yet, when your phone lights up with a buzz, and you see the familiar name ‘Grayson’ pop up, you’re left standing in square one again with shaky fingers and burning eyes.

You’ve read countless messages from Dick, sent during the early morning hours or late in the afternoon. You figure it aligns with his schedule in Bludhaven. The young, twenty-four year old is adamant, ever since you left the manor three years ago, at eighteen, to remain in contact with you no matter what. You haven’t been able to escape his ceaseless concern over your whereabouts, the not-so-subtle questions about your well-being.

It’s funny to you, considering he hadn’t been the most emotionally stable person either, especially when, at fourteen, you and Jason became Batman’s well-known sidekicks, Batgirl and Robin. He had been eighteen, angry, and reckless, going off on his own to make a name for himself that isn’t weighted down by Bruce’s shadow. Yet now, despite owning your own place, securing a stable job, and regularly keeping up with normal adult responsibilities, the older man refuses to ease his worry over you. You know the truth.

He’s afraid of the grief you carry.

You wonder if he’s even aware of his own grief, seeing as all he does is care about yours. You don’t have the heart to tell him to let it go, to give you space—you’re sure that he needs the weekly phone calls more than you do. So, you let him text, call, facetime. Sometimes you’re in the middle of grocery shopping when your phone vibrates with his name rolling across the screen in bright letters, ‘Dick Grayson is calling…’

And sometimes he says something that has you clenching your teeth, staring off at something if only to keep the burn behind your eyes minimal. He’s a trigger for many of these memory flashes that don’t ease the thing inside your chest that’s wailing.

‘I saw this girl the other day that looked like Batgirl and I wondered if I’d been taken back in time, y’know? And—yeah, it was so strange…but then I was like, no—that makes no sense—she’s in Gotham, not here in Bludhaven, but like…she was decked out in purple and yellow, and I thought of you…’

Your ears have started ringing, drowning out the rest of Dick’s monologue; purple and yellow. Purple and yellow. That was Batgirl’s thing. That was your thing. Or, at least, it had been.

You glance down at the pair of latex gloves you clutch in your hand. The material is bright yellow, shiny in the light. Grimacing, you look at Bruce and sigh.

“B…?”

A low hum is given in response, an acknowledgement of your pending question. You’ve grown used to Bruce’s minimal communication. The husky words said in a gruff voice, the clipped instructions, the low grunts.

“Does it have to be bright purple and yellow?” Your voice is quiet, a little unsure. Years of shouting and backhanded slaps after a question still leaves you cautious. Afraid.

The dark-haired man turns in his chair, sharp eyes sliding your way. You stand awkwardly, almost timid. You see the same softening around his eyes, the same flash of gentleness you’d seen when he found you hiding behind a filthy dumpster on a cold Tuesday night.

“Yes,” he says flatly, and the single word lingers with something trailing behind it, as if there’s more that he wants to say. You wait patiently with raised brows, but he doesn’t say anything more, and turns his attention back to the glowing monitors, eyes flitting across blue-lettered reports and images.

You stand there with nothing else to say, the roof of the Batcave seemingly constrictive and as dark as a hole in the ground, the metal tiles under your feet empty and expansive.

There isn’t a sting travelling across your cheek. There’s no screamed curses and insults thrown your way, simply because you asked a question. Yet, why does it feel as if you’ve been kicked in the gut? Was his answer not enough? Surely it is—it’s better than what you used to receive from the people who were meant to love you.

You tug the gloves onto your hands, shimming your fingers into the right places, and glance down at your mustard-yellow boots. You’ll simply have to make do.

You’re snapped out of your thoughts when an elderly lady nudges your arm, murmuring a small ‘excuse me’ as she leans over to grab a container of mozzarella balls.

“Oh,” you mumble, smiling apologetically as you move out of the way. “Sorry, that’s—sorry.”

You hear Dick’s faint voice call your name, and you bring your phone back up to your ear again, answering his questions with a quiet tone, walking away from the aisle of cheese and other dairy products.

For what it’s worth…those aren’t even the worst kinds of memories you have. No, the worst are of the boy shrouded in glory, the second Robin—Jason Todd.

Jason Todd had been the first thing to make sense in your life, which was strange, considering most of your life had been an abstract mess of scraped knees, broken plates, and late nights shooting hoops in the neighbourhood basketball court. A life that Jason knew very well, too.

Perhaps it was the shared trauma of broken families that brought you closer together; sealed the both of you in a wordless acknowledgement that said, ‘I see you.’ Either way, the both of you acted as a crutch for the other, and you try to forget it as you stand in empty elevators, on the edge of the curb for a taxi cab, when you see a little boy with raven-feathered hair on the street.

Oh, Jason. You were everything, is all that you can bring yourself to think some days, when the noise of the city becomes unbearable and you simply have to shove towels inside the gaps in the windowsill—if only to muffle the noise and silence the screaming police sirens.

Those are the days when you’re tempted to leave Gotham entirely, if only to run away from whatever thing is haunting you. Sometimes, in the shadowy darkness of the night, as you lay in bed with the covers drawn to your chin, you wonder if it’s Jason you see at the end of the bed. Small as he was, quiet, and vibrating with a passion that burned bright red. Then you blink and realise you’d only been imagining the straight slope of his nose or the curve of his eyelashes.

“It’s entirely unfair,” you mumble, hands in your lap as you sit cross-legged in the centre of Jason’s room.

Surrounded by scattered CDs, you hear the floorboards creak as Jason moves around the edge of his bed, carrying a pile of books to the empty bookcase. You were helping him sort out the books and CDs he’s been collecting.

“What?” He scoffs with a grin that pulls more to the right than the left. “You’re jealous of boys and their ‘long eyelashes’?”

You can’t help but smile at his mocking tone, the way he teases you as if you’ve known each other for longer than just a few months. Jade-green eyes glance at you briefly.

Rolling your eyes, you sigh defeatedly with dropped shoulders. “Yes, because you all have such long, luscious lashes. Meanwhile, mine are just average.”

Jason slides his pile of books into their designated spots, paper pressed against wood panels, and turns to you. Stepping over the littered CD cases, he crouches directly in front of you, and your breath catches.

“I’m tellin’ you right now, nothing about you is average,” he says, and you can barely breathe with how intently he’s looking at you, and suddenly, it’s like you’re staring into the heart of Gotham. Broken and marred, bloodied and bruised, and yet still so irrevocably beautiful and worth everything.

Well, you once thought that Gotham’s heart was worth everything. Now, you’re not so sure. You lost the clearest piece of love to you on the planet, a boy wrapped in barbed wire with a grin as infectious as a disease.

You wonder sometimes if you’re the only one who feels Jason’s absence as strongly. The emptiness that lingers where his laugh used to echo is so heavy, you’re sure it’s formed a presence of its own. Did his ghost haunt Dick as it did you? Did Dick check over his shoulder and blink rapidly whenever he saw a young boy wearing a red hoodie? Did he have to mutter to himself in the kitchen, pleading with himself to get over what used to be? Or were you the only one?

And what about Bruce? Does the man who once held a broken, fifteen year old boy—who believed in everything the Batman stands for—reduce himself to a mess every night?

Just the thought of Bruce sends a sick sense of bitterness churning in your gut, which you feel entirely guilty for. You know what happened wasn’t Bruce’s fault. You know that he did everything he could. Yet, when you think too hard about what it was like on the day he came back with nothing but red eyes, a clipped utterance, and no Jason…you have to run to the bathroom to empty out the contents of your stomach in the toilet. It’s embarrassing and leaves your cheeks burning with shame.

You should be over this by now. It’s been six years.

Memory is a fickle thing, regardless of time. It chooses when to be heard and when to remain dormant. You’re stuck in an endless cycle of paralyzing remembrance and constant avoidance. Weeks go by without incident, only for a month to trap you inside your head with memories of a broken past. Then the cycle repeats.

Despite this, you’ve learnt to cope with the past like a sailor does with the roughened sea. Although, you’re sure you’re more akin to a sailor stranded in a raging tempest. You ride each wave of nausea-inducing memory, all whilst clinging to the barest strip of wood—Dick Grayson and his ever-present concern, Alfred’s occasional query of your wellbeing, Bruce’s own sanity, the job you have, and the sickening feeling that you can’t let Jason see you like this, despite him not being here in the first place.

You’re drowning in grief, and you know it.

And so you’re not sure what exactly happened between April and June of 2005, but you know Dick’s phone calls stopped almost entirely for three whole months. You only called once, in carefully concealed panic, when you realised he hadn’t called you in two weeks.

“Hi, sorry. I know I don’t usually call, but you haven’t—”

“No, no, don’t—uh—don’t apologise. I’m—yeah. I'm sorry, that’s my bad. Should’ve let you know. Things have just been busy, honey.”

“...That’s all it is? Just been busy?”

“Yeah, I promise. Everything’s okay.”

“Okay…well, I’m glad you’re okay then…”

The phone call had been short and it had put you on edge. Dick doesn’t let phone calls end abruptly—instead, he takes his time to explain things or rambles about topics you’re not very interested in. But you don’t push or prod, mostly because you have the suspicion it has to do with his life of vigilantism—the one you left behind five years ago.

Leaving that life behind had been easy. Jason’s death meant the death of Robin. It meant the death of Batgirl, too. Although, your death had been inward and known by very few people.

July comes by, only a week passes where Dick calls you consistently, and then it’s back to radio silence. The importance of his phone calls is viciously realised, but you don’t have the heart to admit it. Dick Grayson has been your crutch for the last three years, and you’re inexplicably starving for the care he manages to give you through his calls.

Taking it upon yourself to find out what’s going on, you decide to drive to the Manor. You crank up the radio as loud as you can, the car rattling with noise as you cruise across the bridge that leads to the mainland. If you’re alone with nothing but silence and your thoughts, you’ll probably turn back the other way. It had been hard enough to convince yourself to grab your keys off the kitchen counter.

The Manor is just as grand as you remember it, if not a little weathered by time—brown against the blue sky, like a giant boulder sitting in the center of a vibrant green landscape that stretches flatly like a canvas before reaching a thin treeline of woods. Gravel crunches under tires, and the car’s engine rumbles before fading into silence. Blinking, you’re fourteen again as your hand wraps around the door handle, and you step out into the frigid air.

Tugging your coat closer to your frame, you take measured steps up the driveway, glancing at the neatly pruned hedges that cluster beneath some of the large, lower windows, and the copper-leaved tree that’s remained the same for the last decade—sitting resolutely to the left of the estate and hiding away pale-brown bricks and frosted glass panes.

The double doors, the colour of dirt, are the only thing between you and something that leaves behind a bitter taste in your mouth. Gripping the heavy, bronze door knocker, you thud it against the door three times, before stepping back as if burned by the metal.

You’ve forgotten Alfred’s punctuality, because it’s only seconds before the doors silently groan open in the way that only heavy things do, and you’re met with grey, creased eyes that glue to you with reserved surprise.

Lips twitching into a weak smile, you say quietly, “Hi, Alfred.”

The stoic butler ushers you in quickly, a welcoming and familiar hand pressed lightly against your back to lead you across the threshold. He gestures to your coat, but you look at his wrinkled face and shake your head, something inside you breaking in half, but you don’t know what it is.

“That’s okay, Alfred,” you say gently, “I just—I’m here to talk…to Bruce. Is he down in the cave?”

Alfred nods his head, walking past you towards the parlour room. You follow behind quietly.

“He is, indeed. Might I ask why you’ve come?”

You glance his way to see him already looking at you, eyes the colour of iron flickering across your face as you both step into the parlour. It’s cold you notice, and the room is dim.

“I, um…” you’re not sure how to word this—how could you possibly say, ‘I’m getting separation anxiety because Dick isn’t calling me and I want to know why’?

“Just want to ask him if there’s something important going on…Dick’s been busier than usual,” is what you settle with, and Alfred accepts it with nothing but a simple nod, and no further questions. You appreciate Alfred’s uncanny ability to brush off any form of curiosity.

The parlour room remains the same, with only a few, small changes. You’re sure that the two leather couches have been reupholstered; shinier and a richer shade of brown. Vases full of flowers are placed neatly beneath the colonial windows which are framed by thick curtains the colour of moss. Usually the bouquets consisted of lilies, but now they’re tulips. The persian carpet stretches across the polished floorboards, softening the sound of your shoes, and the mounted electrical lights are unlit, surrounded by clusters of gilded paintings.

Passing under an arched entranceway, you walk into a familiar, adjacent room, where bookcases line the walls with glass doors, and an old grand piano sits as the centerpiece of it all. Sleek, black, and with keys open to the cool air that drifts in through an open window.

Alfred looks your way with a careful glance, and says in a mild tone that’s not meant to be accusing.

“Do you still remember?”

You wish you could tell him that you remember everything. Would it be ill of you to break down and spill your guts out to the man who’d patched you up more times than you can count? Who stitched torn skin back together again while you bit down on a piece of leather? Not that you needed it, anyway.

No, you think to yourself. Alfred does not need to see me that way, either.

You smile softly and bob your head. “Yes, I remember.”

His thin lips quirk ever-so slightly, and he nods curtly. With his hands clasped neatly behind his back, he turns and leaves the room without another word, leaving you behind with your heartbeat pounding inside your ribcage like a panicked bird.

Glancing down at the gleaming keys, you lift your hand to hover above them with the intent to replicate a familiar tune. Your fingers are shaking violently, and for a moment, all you can hear is the blood rushing inside your ears, before you swallow thickly, and press your fingertips down on the cool ivory-coated wood.

The melody is quiet, the pressure of your fingers not great enough to make it echo. Instead, it reminds you of the faint call of birds outside, the ones you’d see flying down from the trees to the lawn, picking at the grass.

A low creak deep inside the house reverberates through the room, and the centre bookcase dislodges from the wall with a scrape. You stagger back a step as the bookcase swings outward like a door—the books and the nick-nacks remaining stationary inside the shelves, a feat you had never decided to investigate.

Your pulse flutters in your neck, and you unclench your jaw. Teeth aching, you look down the shadowed staircase that the bookcase had revealed. Entering the Batcave had been so normal to you, three years ago, and now, your stomach churns as if the bats that hang from the cave’s ceiling are living inside your gut.

With a deep sigh and a shift of your feet, you take the steps down. The air is noticeably cooler, but damp, as if leftover mist was hanging in the air and brushing against your cheeks. You had realised, at fourteen, that it’s because there is mist in the air, courtesy of the waterfalls that rush from the ceiling like jets of water from a spout. You clench your fists by your sides to stop your hands from shaking.

Reaching the bottom, you walk slowly across the metal floor of the first and main platform. Glancing to your left, monitors that curve at the sides glow brightly around sleek desks; news channels play from the ones mounted higher above, police scanners from different units below, and open windows of various different tabs on the ones below that. To your right, you spare a very brief look at the cylinder cases that display various suits. One scorched and shredded suit in particular sends bile rising up your throat, and you instantly tear your gaze away.

Hopping down a small set of steps to the second platform, your footsteps echo as you pass the several medical cots neatly placed in rows, the smell of antiseptic light in the air from countless injuries tended to on the white cotton mattresses. It lingers, and your throat tightens at the memory of sitting on the edge of one of the cots, legs dangling, and wincing whenever Alfred passed a needle through your skin. Blinking and burying the memory down, you quickly shuffle past and stop at the top of another flight of stairs.

This one leads to the third and last level of the Batcave that acts as two main things: Bruce’s main monitor that only he can use, and the Batmobile’s, quote on quote, ‘garage’. Looking down at the platform below, you hesitate. Currently, the Batmobile isn’t in sight, instead hidden beneath the platform to make room for two large monitor screens mounted to a desk, where a broad shouldered man sits.

Any courage that you might have had before is shattered in an instant. How do you possibly speak into the empty, moist air of the cave without your voice cracking like a pubescent teen’s? How can you possibly ask Bruce Wayne anything when you haven’t spoken to him in over a year?

And then you remember the cost of the gasoline you pumped into your car, and the fear that’s lodged itself inside your ribcage because Dick hasn’t been calling you as often as he did. Are you afraid for Dick, or are you afraid of a change in routine?

You inhale sharply through your nose, the air chilling the inside of your lungs. Petrichor hangs in the air, and although the scent is usually soothing, nothing seems to quieten the thundering beat of your heart.

“You know I’m here,” you say from atop the stairs, and your voice echoes like a ripple in still water.

Bruce barely shifts in his chair, rectangular glasses sitting on the high ridge of his nose. That’s new.

“Why?” Comes his gruff response…that's not new.

You inhale deeply, steeling your nerves as you descend the staircase. You know this man, he’s not a stranger. Oh, what a lie that is.

“Dick’s been busy,” you say, hating how your voice sounds so loud in the emptiness of the cave.

Bruce doesn’t look at you, but instead his eyes flick over the text on the monitor screens, and you can feel yourself shrivelling inside, and you’re no longer twenty-one, but fifteen and choking on grief.

“Bruce, what’s been going on?”

The tone of your voice is only slightly firmer, because you really can’t stand being here for much longer.

A rough exhalation of air meets you, wide shoulders rolling stiffly before he finally turns to you, the chair squeaking quietly. For the first time in over a year, you meet familiar eyes the colour of gunmetal-blue, and feel something crash down on you heavily.

“Nothing,” he says lowly, and the gravel of his voice echoes out clearly through the cave. The rush of the waterfalls is nowhere near as loud as the thin humming of blood in your ears.

“Things have been the same as always—”

“That’s not true,” you interject, surprising yourself even with the severity you push out.

His sharp brows knit together, and he goes to say your name in what you’re sure would have been a stern tone, but you don’t let him utter even the first syllable out.

“Dick calls me all the time,” you say, raising a loose hand, “and now he’s barely been able to call me twice. It’s not normal, and I want to know why he’s so busy. Last time we spoke, he said he’s been helping you.”

Shockingly, you watch as Bruce takes his glasses off and rubs a harsh hand over his face. You notice now that his jaw is covered in dark stubble, instead of being clean shaven. Now that you see him fully, you notice just how tired he seems, and something other than the panicked bird in your chest comes to life.

Something’s wrong.

Watching the creases in his forehead deepen, as if he’s thinking about something severely upsetting, you wait with your feet glued to the floor. Not even seconds ago, you felt the urgent need to flee, as if your skeleton could not remain still for another second, but now, it’s as if gravity has latched an even tighter hand around your ankles, keeping you firmly in place.

If Bruce is…ruffled by whatever thing is going on, you need to know. You have to know, even if it has nothing to do with you. The thought confuses you; caring about Bruce’s issues hasn’t been at the top of your agenda for three years.

“Someone new has come to Gotham,” Bruce finally says, and his voice is quieter than before.

Immediately, you frown. “Who?”

Bruce stands with a near silent huff, as if his muscles are aching and it’s getting the best of him, and he starts ascending the stairs up to the first platform. You’ve known since you were fourteen that he wants you to follow him.

“He showed up three months ago.” Well, that checks out with the cessation of Dick’s phone calls.

Walking up the three flights of stairs, you trail behind Bruce as he makes his way up to the curved monitors, falling heavily into one of the rolling chairs. You eye him curiously, your pulse fluttering with anxiety as the keyboard clicks and clacks beneath his swift fingers.

An image pops up on the screen, and you squint at a blurred image of a man seated on a motorcycle. You can just make out the train tracks that run through the ground and the station's arched ceiling made of steel beams and glass.

Your frown deepens. “What is….?”

Bruce doesn’t pay you any mind, instead typing quickly again. The image’s resolution refreshes, and you can see much clearer. Your head tilts with further intrigue as you notice the red helmet the biker wears, but it looks nothing like a motorcycle helmet—no, it’s smooth and sleek, with gleaming white eyes instead of a visor.

“Well…” you say slowly, “what’s so special about him that it’s got you and Dick working so hard?”

Bruce clicks another key, and you realise that it’s not an image, but a video. You hear the masked man call out, voice deep and heavy.

“You haven’t lost your touch!”

The man’s voice is nearly drowned out entirely at the end by a train as it roars past, hiding the biker from view completely. Bruce pauses the video.

Your confusion only heightens, and a dull burn of frustration settles in your chest because why can’t Bruce just tell you instead of forcing you to figure it out on your own?

“I don’t understand,” you sigh, glancing at Bruce’s profile. Gosh, he looks terrible.

Bruce remains quiet, a deep exhale passing through his nose as he types again, the sound echoing in your ears louder than it should. The video replays, this time without the overlaying noise of the train.

You haven’t lost your touch, Bruce!”

A pang of shock shoots through you, brows raising. You look to Bruce, searching for an answer in his silence. This unknown man, wearing a strange helmet, knows who the Batman is? That’s…disastrous.

You’re not prepared for Bruce to stand, nor for him to walk past you to the other side of the platform where the cylinder glass cases are. You swallow thickly, eyes flickering between the wide line of his shoulders and the case he approaches. Remaining in place, you don’t dare say anything, instead waiting for him to speak.

Bruce says your name, and you feel your heart drop to your stomach with a heavy thud.

He’s standing in front of the torn and shredded suit you’d barely been able to look at for more than a second when you came down here in the first place.

He’s looking at Jason’s suit.

Your voice trembles. “B?”

“It’s him.”

You’re shaking your head before he even finishes his sentence. No, no, no.

“Bruce, stop—”

“He’s trained,” Bruce continues, paying your increasing panic no mind. He only stares at his reflection in the glass, as if he could find something that would solve all of this. As if there’s an answer to the guilt you can see so plainly in front of you.

“He knows things that only a Robin would know.”

You can feel the inside of your elbows burning, your fingers violently shaking at your sides. You can’t bring yourself to say anything, but you’re desperate to scream.

You’re insane. You’ve gone insane!

“Things…only Jason would know.”

You break. “Stop, Bruce. He’s dead. He’s dead.”

Bruce turns, eyes snapping to you with intensity. You can’t pin-point the emotion in his face—you almost never could before—and your hand presses to your chest where your heart thunders against muscle and bone.

This had been a terrible mistake. You should never have come back here.

“If this…if this is what you’re saying to help you sleep at night…” you warn, but the strength of your voice is barely there, wobbling like laminated paper. “Then that’s fine, but don’t…don’t you dare bring me into it.”

Bruce regards you with a calculating look, as if mentally pinpointing all the parts of you that are breaking. How dare he say such a ridiculous, cruel thing? After six years? Six years of pretending that everything’s okay?

You hear him say your name lowly again, and you shake your head, pointing a trembling finger at him.

“It’s been six years, Bruce. You held him. This—this man,” you glance briefly behind you at the monitor, lifting a weak hand, “he’s probably just some—some guy that’s smarter than everyone else.”

Even you know how unlikely that is, but you can’t hear anything over your pulse and the overwhelming panic that’s clawing at the lining of your stomach.

Bruce sighs deeply, the rough sound grating at your ears. You should have just waited for things to blow over. Dick would have started calling you again, and you’d never have asked what was happening—never would have stepped back into this second home of yours that’s far too empty.

“I wouldn’t have told you if I wasn’t sure,” Bruce says, and his voice comes out quietly, as if he’s finally realising the damage he’s causing you in this moment.

“He’s dead,” you hiss, your voice catching. Your cheeks are wet, and you don’t remember when you started crying—you shouldn’t be. Not in front of Bruce.

“There’s a way to bring people back…”

You’re shaking your head again, trying to suck air back into your chest, if only for your heart to stop thudding against your ribcage like it’s trapped.

But he won’t stop talking. “It’s called the Lazar—”

“Stop,” you gasp, hands clamping over your ears.

As if you’d inhaled concrete into your lungs, you can barely breathe, and you can almost imagine the taste of asphalt on your tongue—no, that’s the blood from your bitten tongue.

You stagger back a step, feeling as if everything around you is spinning. Gunmetal-blue eyes stare at you with concealed concern, flickering across your face. Your gaze falls on the case behind him, the shredded red and yellow fabric that taunts you, and all you can remember is the heat of the explosion.

Your legs give out. Your head hits the floor before Bruce can get to you.

Your name is whispered urgently, and your consciousness returns to you in slow blinks as you wake up. Someone’s shaking your shoulder, fingers gripping the edge of your sleeve.

Pale moonlight illuminates the jade-green eyes that blink down at you, and you groan, pushing your palm against Jason’s cheek and away from you. It’s the middle of the night and you were sleeping so well.

“What?” You grumble as you throw your arm across your face, and you hear his quiet breath.

“You gotta see something.”

Dropping your arm, your bleary eyes glare at him tiredly. It’s the first night you’ve had in ages that doesn’t involve swinging from one rooftop to the next, and he wants you to get up and see something? Is he serious?

Jason tilts his head, his lopsided smile curling his lips.

“C’mon,” he murmurs, nudging his head to the side. A small gesture for you to get up and follow him. Indulge him in whatever nighttime adventure he has planned.

Glancing between him, the digital clock on your nightstand that winks 1.34 AM at you, and your open door…you huff and fling your duvet off of you.

“If this is something stupid…”

“It’s not,” Jason assures you with a sigh, socked feet silent along the hardwood floor.

Trailing behind Jason and yawning into your elbow, the two of you silently make your way up marble staircases and down empty hallways. The third level of the manor is mostly bare, sparse pieces of furniture hidden behind white sheets like dormant ghosts, and as well trained as you both are to remain silent, your footsteps echo in the emptiness.

“Jason, what exactly—”

He cuts off your whisper with a shush, a single finger pressed to his lips. He places a hand on your shoulder, the weight heavy and warm, and nudges you into the largest hall on the level. It’s noticeably brighter, the windows devoid of curtains and letting the moonlight spill against the floor in giant rectangles.

Typically, this room is used for wrestling, floor mats splayed across the hardwood floor that isn’t as shiny as the lower floors. You follow Jason as he crosses the room, his raven-feathered hair ruffled.

Crouching beside him at one of the windows, you notice the glass pane has been pushed open, and the telescope Bruce bought for Jason’s birthday is propped against the windowsill. Usually, Alfred insists that the windows are kept closed during the night, as the last time one was left open, a bat had come into the manor and had remained chained to the ceiling for the better part of a week.

You frown with intrigue as Jason peers into the telescope. He glances at you, bobbing his head for you to do the same. Jason watches you carefully as you lean forward, fingers pressing lightly against the scope as you look through the glass.

As bright as an orb of lightning, the moon greets you in a stunning vision of magnified quality. Your breath leaves you in a quiet gasp, and you trace the grey lines that make up the craters that crack through the moon’s surface. It’s as if the moon were made of glowing glass, and the craters were the product of golf balls smashing into it.

You pull away, and find that Jason is already looking at you. A wide grin creeps across your face.

“It’s amazing,” you murmur quietly, and your initial grogginess has already begun to dissipate.

Jason’s dark lashes flicker, and he smiles. The right side of his mouth is always higher than the left, and you've always loved the deep commas around the corners of his lips.

“Thought you might like it,” he says, keeping his voice low.

For a moment, you’re suspended in his gaze, watching the minuscule movement of his eyes as they trace your features and the smile that remains on your face. He's calm, in this moment. The opposite of what he has been for the last few weeks, and you relish in it.

“Thank you for showing me.”

Jason’s lips curve upward farther, the creases around his eyes deepening like he's proud.

“...Even though you woke me up at an ungodly time.”

Your shoulder is pushed back lightly by his hand, and you laugh with a quiet breath, hearing his own chuckles reverberate next to you.

“Yeah, whatever,” he mumbles, his voice carrying his smile audibly.

You lean forward again, quinting through the eyepiece. You’ve never been able to see the moon this close, and you never even dreamed that you would. The only thing that ever came close to this was the printed images in the library books at the school you once went to.

“It’s so—” your words die when you lean back again, finding the space beside you empty. The warmth of his body absent, as if he had never been there in the first place.

Blinking, your head swivels around, and confusion settles in your chest. Where’d he go?

“Jason?”

Standing to your feet, your fingers idly rub at your arm as you look around the large hall. You look in the shadows, but you find nothing there. There’s only you and the sound of your breathing, the floormats suddenly uncomfortably soft beneath your feet, as if you might just fall through them.

He couldn’t have left the room so quickly, could he?

The light in the room dims, and you glance behind you through the window. Dark clouds slither across the moon, and something cold wraps around your lungs.

You spin, gaze frantically searching.

“Jason?” You call out, not bothering to hide the volume of your voice in the quiet manor. “Jason!?”

There’s nothing but noise in your ears, muffled and warped. The darkness of your closed eyelids is the only thing that greets you, and a pounding in the back of your skull and a singular sentence.

Where’s Jason? Where’s Jason? Where’s Jason?

Your eyes fling open and you shoot upright, gasping.

Jason’s here.

______________________________

Thank you for reading! God bless! :]

#jason todd x reader #jason todd x you #jason todd/reader #jason todd/you #red hood x reader #red hood/reader #red hood #jason todd #arkham universe #batman: under the red hood #dcu #dc comics #dc universe

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tiva-challenges · 2 days ago

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Tiva Challenges Wrapped!

Words Written: 155,237+

Stories Written: 21

Authors Involved: 8

Tiva Fans!

As we enter into the final hours of 2024, we want to celebrate what a wonderful year it has been for Tiva fanfiction! This project ( @tiva-challenges ) started in the wake of the unbelievable news that our beloved characters, Tony and Ziva, are finally getting their own, well-deserved SPINOFF! Our initial goal with these challenges was to help keep the fandom active and excited as we wait patiently (or not so patiently) for the release of the show, and in that, I'd say we have succeeded! I think I can speak on behalf of all fanfiction authors when I say: Thank you to everyone who read, commented, and otherwise interacted with our fics this year! It truly means the world and inspires us to keep creating!

So without further ado, let's take a look back at the fics that have been added to the ranks this year!

Monthly Breakdown:

August:

Our first ever challenge in August served as a test run, and was a resounding success! Inspired by the heat of the summer season, our prompt was "Tivali Summer Day" and added over 16,000 words of family fluff to the fandom! What a way to start out!

and the birds will sing our song in halcyon by indestinatus

la vie en rose by Whoa_MyNinja

Pictures in Paris by Shawneeleigh1234

ville de l'amour by ContentsPriceless

September:

September's challenge tackled a question we've all thought about: "Jet Lag: What Really Happened?" Evidently, this ignited the imaginations of many authors, as it received the most responses, with SIX new fics added to the Tiva tag. We may never know what exactly happened in Paris, but at least now, we have some ideas!

Crossroads by Mirandabelle

glitter in the air by Whoa_MyNinja

oh no, i'm falling in love again by benditlikepress

What Happens in Paris... by Shawneeleigh1234

What Really Happened by ContentsPriceless

when you were mine in the dark by indestinatus

October:

In October, we began our "Tiva Seasons" series with the challenge theme "Tiva Seasons: Autumn." For this month, we wanted a more open-ended prompt, and so authors worked from a list of autumn-themed sensory prompts, leading to some darker themes, and some cozier themes too! Expect some more "Tiva Seasons" prompts in the new year!

Better as a Team by Mirandabelle

blood is the life by ContentsPriceless

maybe we got lost in translation by indestinatus

You're Gonna Go Far by sheistheweapon

November:

Late in October, the Tiva fandom was *gobsmacked* by the first look at the upcoming NCIS: Tony and Ziva spinoff, thanks to a leaked trailer from Mipcom. This, of course, led to a ton of theorizing on social media. For our November prompt, it only felt right to build from this, encouraging authors to fill in some of the blanks from the trailer. Thus was born "Leaked: Spinoff Speculation."

A Better Mother by sheistheweapon

Amats by SamWhity

soft light by ContentsPriceless

December:

For our final challenge of the year, we were feeling the holiday spirit! The prompt "Tony & Ziva: Holiday Magic" brought mistletoe, menorahs, and so much more to our screens. Who doesn't like ringing in the season with a good Tiva fic and a cup of cocoa? I don't know about you, but I don't think there can ever be enough Christmas fics.

if the fates allow by ContentsPriceless

One Step at a Time by Whoa_MyNinja

we should just kiss (like real people do) by indestinatus

Wrapped in Red by sheistheweapon

Special Recognition:

Here's to all the Tiva writers who have published this year! We can't wait to see what else you write in 2025! Thank you for all you do to help keep this fandom alive!

If you ever feel inspired to join us on a monthly challenge, we'll be glad to have you! And don't forget, challenges from previous months can always be added to, if the inspiration strikes!

Links to each author's Tiva fics can be found below! There are some great ones you may have missed!

Alex_Beckett

Ameliorably

ami_ven

amkchristian2225

andipxndy

anr

aRegularJo

Axolotl_Supremacy

benditlikepress

BleepBloopBotz

born33

brightblue

Brittany1985

brycedearings

Calico_Cat_TIVA_Fan

CatPawsInNightSky

Chemmie

cherishtiva

chiaruggiero11

clairethebear98

ContentsPriceless

cozyreinsfw

Datherine100

deathofsanity

DonkeyDomination

EaraneMith

EleanorKate

EmLikesToWrite

Fanficshewrote1999

FangirlFlailings

Forkz

GracieGirl99

Hundan

iamcoolkid

indestinatus

Infinite_Fandoms

just_a_girl_named_julie

klutzy_girl

LadyLustful

lifelesswordscarryon

LoadsOfRandomness

lylahwntrs

MakiMcGee

Man_your_Canon

Mirandabelle

Miraphina Atherton

mischeif24

My_head_is_in_the_clouds_right_now

narcissadaffodil

ncislashipper317

NotoriousHRC

OPSManager

owlthewriter

permetstu_atlolevad

PrimaTiva35

princess_prentiss

PrincessGibbs1

quokkall

RadiantArabianNights28

Rose_DiVerona

SamWhity

Shawneeleigh1234

sheistheweapon

SiriusCatBennett

slouchingprovocatively

St4r_0f_D4v1d

Storybookgirl77

sunflower_happiness

theMarinersKraken05

TheSalty

undercoversconsequences

Whoa_MyNinja

woamx

Wolfcry22

woodencow

ZeeVah_Ninja

Here's wishing you a happy New Year! Remember to leave some love for the authors, and we'll see you in the next one!

Kudos ♡

#tivachallenges #ncis #tiva #tiva fanfiction #tony dinozzo #ziva david #ncis fanfiction #tiva spinoff #writing #ncis: tony & ziva #tiva challenges wrapped #tiva authors

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disapprove · 2 days ago

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She couldn't help but somewhat smile at his words, his jokes and the about the secret he told he would keep for with her. It was rather ironic. Yes, she did save his life, but he had no reason to return that kindness to her. He could use her to his own advantage, but he didn't seem to be doing that. His rough and bitter walls seemed to melt the more she was around him. Every now and then she swore she could see a glint of that genuine kindness glistering in his eyes. Something Ruby didn't mind, she was enjoying it. "To be fairly honest with you, I thought you were just overreacting about the water's temperature."

The red head watched his broad back, head tilting when he explained and talked about all the things he thought he knew about her. Rubienna hated how he somehow seemed to look right through her. He had her all figured out and maybe he knew even more about her than she had figured out for herself yet. He seemed to really see her. And that was new for her. Eyes closed after she had followed Erik's gaze to the sky and she smiled, genuinely smiled, when the first bright, yellow strays of sun moved through the large trees. The sun reflected to her pale, freckled cheeks and she couldn't help but feel more alive than she had been in weeks, if not months. "I don't pretend." Ruby answered him. "All this - all that I'm doing now is most certainly you. Your company is bad influence." but she was still smiling, she was enjoying the version of herself she got to be around him. At his words about growing up in the cold, she nodded slowly, able to feel the weight that carried each word. "I admire that about you." And she meant that. But she wouldn't say much more than that; he wouldn't want her to pity him.

Just when she returned her gaze to Erik, she had noticed him turning around and she parted her lips to object but she herself couldn't help her eyes from wandering down to places she really shouldn't be looking at. She hadn't ever seen a male naked before, let alone a warrior like him. His tensed muscled, the way his broad chest dropped and lowered, those veins showing in his neck, and those thick thighs. She cleared her throat, eyes shooting straight up to his eyes. Her pale cheeks now a burning red, a soft breathing laugh leaving her lips when he started about the Saxon Lord who was waiting for her in the castle. She had already crossed way too many boundaries to return to the Saxon Lord without a good story. And to be honest, she had no idea how she would ever make up a story to hide this one.

"You are such an arrogant man." Was all she managed to bring out, a playful scoff leaving her lips when she moved her arms in the water to splash him with quite some water. Thinking about the wedding night made her heart race. She didn't want to give her untouched body to a man she didn't love. And he certainly didn't want to give it so someone who seemed very keen on inviting every maiden, something he did already. "A woman like me?" She scoffed again, her brows raising slowly. "I think he'll manage just fine. He's a tall, and muscled man. He'll give me a good night. I'm sure he knows how to pleasure a woman. I mean, I hope so." Ruby had to defend him is she wanted to stand a chance to him. "As if you know how treat a lady well." Ruby then shot back, her grin now also playing on her lips when she shifted on the slippery rocks she stood, moving a tiny bit closer to him. "All you can do is bash, and groan and be moody about everyone and everything." She flashed him a teasing little smile, before she chuckled. "I doubt that a woman will get in your bed with that big mouth of yours." Ruby wasn't stupid, she knew he had probably been with plenty of women before, and she couldn't blame them, but still. Her tone was still playful and she was still smiling as she talked, forgetting just about everything else around them.

"It's actually quite cute that you seem so jealous of a man you could easily defeat." The words left her mouth without she thought about it.

Erik couldn’t help the deep chuckle that escaped him as Ruby’s voice, sharp and teasing, reached his ears. He didn’t turn, though the temptation to glance over his shoulder was strong. Her hesitant steps toward the water echoed against the riverbank, her soft hisses of discomfort drawing an amused smirk to his lips. She had taken the bait, just as he’d hoped. Not out of mockery—no, this was something else. Erik enjoyed seeing the fire in her come to life, even if it flickered in the form of indignation or stubbornness. It made her more than 'just one of the many girls', as she likely thought of herself. She didn’t yet see what he did: the ember within her, steady and waiting for the right wind to stoke it into an inferno. When Ruby issued her demand—Don’t you dare turn around—Erik raised his hands in mock surrender, his grin widening as he complied. “Your secret is safe with me,” he said over his shoulder, his tone low but laced with amusement. His smirk only grew as he heard the telltale splash of water behind him and her sharp intake of breath as the cold bit her skin. “Cold, is it?” he called, tilting his head toward her voice but keeping his back turned, as promised. “You don’t say. Perhaps I should’ve warned you.” He let the sarcasm drip from his words, enjoying the banter as much as the sound of her moving closer through the water.

When she spoke again, her voice carrying a shiver, Erik glanced upward at the sky, a mock-serious expression on his face. “Remind you never to listen to me again? But that would rob your life of its only spark of excitement.” He turned just slightly, enough that she could see his profile, though he was careful not to overstep the boundary she’d set. “Besides,” he added, his grin returning, “you seem to handle discomfort rather well for someone who pretends otherwise.” At her question, his grin softened into something more genuine. “You learn to live with the cold when it’s been your companion since birth. My home isn’t a place for the soft-hearted. The fjords will either make you stronger than stone or swallow you whole.” Erik turned fully toward her without thinking, the teasing words still on the tip of his tongue, but they never made it out. His sharp wit faltered as his gaze inadvertently dropped, catching on Ruby’s form as she stood waist-deep in the water. Her wet hair clung to her pale skin, and though the river concealed much, it didn’t leave enough to his imagination. For a moment, Erik froze, his usually indomitable confidence shaken by an unbidden rush of heat. His eyes lingered where they shouldn’t have—at the swell of her chest, barely veiled by her fiery hair—and he cursed himself silently for the lapse in discipline. He was a man, yes, and it had been far too long since he’d let himself indulge in such thoughts, but this—she—was different. Ruby wasn’t some tavern girl he’d charm for a night and forget by dawn. She was… complicated. Defiant, strong, and now, unexpectedly, beautiful in a way that was far too distracting for his liking. Erik dragged his gaze back to her face, his throat tightening as he noted the faint blush across her cheeks, though whether it was from the cold or some awareness of his attention, he couldn’t be sure. He felt the warmth rising in his own face and clenched his jaw, forcing himself to keep his expression neutral, though he could feel the slip of his usual control.

Erik let out a low, self-deprecating chuckle, shaking his head as if to banish the thoughts threatening his composure. Sarcasm, his ever-reliable armor, rushed to his rescue. “Well, well,” he began, his tone smooth and teasing, “I do envy your future lord. Poor bastard will be in for quite the challenge on your wedding night, assuming he can keep his wits about him after drowning himself in mead. Not sure many men have the stamina—or the courage—for a woman like you.” He smirked, his brown eyes glinting with mischief, daring to hold her gaze this time. “Though I suppose, if he’s lucky, he’ll manage to impress you before he passes out. A rare feat, I imagine.” His grin widened, the familiar spark of playful arrogance back in full force. “You should hope he’s at least quick about it,” Erik added, his voice dipping into a mock-serious tone, though the humor in his eyes betrayed him. “Wouldn’t want to spend too much of your wedding night waiting for him to figure out what to do.” He let out another soft chuckle, his expression daring her to retort, to fight back in the way that only she seemed to. It was a game now—one that distracted him from the storm raging in his mind.

#hiddcnhorizcns

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kazumahashimoto · 4 months ago

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YOU'RE ALIVE, IT'S SO GOOD NOW

#lol. here it is #my tribute to beyblade x for keeping me. surviving #it is not so good now and i don't feel like i'm alive most of the time but ! for at least 22 minutes every saturday i feel more normal 👍#so uhhh shout out! shout out!#hh art #beyblade #beyblade x #jaxon cross #ekusu kurosu #robin kazami #multi nanairo #meiko myoden #taisho sushiya

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selfinflictedgunshotwound · 6 days ago

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it sucks to have no one to talk about the big emotions to because they're either too close to you or too far away... i simply don't know how to cope with real life and i don't know how people do

#my guess is everyone fakes it until they die and they don't center their entire lives on negative emotions and thought patterns but that's #just a guess LMAO #i think i lost the genetic lottery and not bc i'm ugly or anything like that like i could care less whether i'm seen as ugly or pretty atp #but just like. mentally. i wasn't given a great hand... which sucks because otherwise i think my family is fine but we all wind each other #up in the worst ways and i know all that it would take to change my current horrible ugly thought patterns is to slowly change my life #likeeee trust me... i'm trying... but it's so so hard when you feel grief for every little change #which is why i think i'm not equipped for real life. imagine what'll happen when the ppl i love the most leave me. bc i always imagine it #which is stupid because i know it's because they're all i have! my life is so small the only thing that exists within it is my loved ones!#they would suffocate under the weight of my love for them if i was able to show it better lmao :/ probably good that i can't bc i'd be in #tears near-constantly if so. and i hate crying in front of people #i mean i hate crying period which is totally great for my emotional regulation i assure you #idk... i know the world isn't 'supposed' to be easy #that's a concept our entire universe doesn't understand #the only things that are real are life and death and how you get from one to the other #but. still. i just wish i didn't have such a hard to being alive #ik i complain abt this shit everyday LMAO but it's hard not to when you have nothing else to think about #tbh i get why people work and have families and stuff now. when you have all that practical stuff to think about #you don't have time to be constantly in your head about every horrible possibility. unless of course you're me who couldn't get out #of my own head even when i had a full-time job... is there any actual way to get better? sometimes i feel like it's a myth

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mad-hunts · 3 months ago

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i sincerely believe that barton literally just... drops his stuff down once he gets home and lays on the floor sometimes to feel the coolness of the ground after he's had a long day at work + the mathis kids literally have just gotten used to talking to him while he's just. lying there and honestly, it's little thing's like that remind me that... oh yeah, barton is basically my OC, because i deadass have done that in my room before ☠️ LMAO

#OF MONSTERS AND MEN: musings.#ooc post.#AHH being alive really is both simultaneously the most tiring but also awesome thing sometimes moots #because there'll be times where you'll feel so dead on your feet that all you feel like you can do is lay on the floor BUT then something #epic happens and those epic things... now those are worth living for ❤️ they don't even have to be big things though #they could just be seeing a friend for a minute or two or going out for a sweet treat orrr taking a 10 minute walk #because personally i find that walks tend to make me feel better for some reason. i guess because exercising raises endorphins-#or... something like that? yeah i think i know what i'm talking about but correct me if i'm wrong y'all LOL but yeahhh #in summary life is a spectacular thing so if you're having trouble in any way - just hang in there BC something good with come your way #i guarantee it 💕#ANGER'S HELPED ME STAY ALIVE: headcanons.

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daz4i · 1 year ago

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i am so angry about being alive it's not even funny anymore

#what's the point in any of this 😐 i will literally never be okay. i never have been okay. I've had debilitating anxiety since birth #it's not going to go away it's literally getting worse as i grow older and so is my depression #hate to hear ppl say it gets better when I've been gradually getting worse since i was like 13 #which is extremely funny. bc when i was 13 is when most of my suicide attempts took place #at least i was active and took initiative back then 🙄 i only became too tired to keep trying since #i don't want to kill myself i just want to be dead. I'm tired. I'm angry. I'm always feeling awful. nothing is worth it #even when i feel good it's like 1% of how bad i always feel. and it's not like there's much good to go around anyway #i don't understand now people don't constantly feel like losing their mind over how shit life is truly #there's this line in nlh actually. where yozo asks how come ppl don't constantly want to kill themselves. and yeah felt #i can barely distract myself anymore bc nothing is stimulating enough esp when I'm alone #and i don't. care enough. about anything. to want to stay alive. like i said nothing is worth it. idc if ppl would be sad sorry #i don't even know what I'm saying anymore man. idk why I'm doing so bad rn. it's been a tough week ig.#nothing actually happened but everything is just. less than average. a little worse than neutral. just enough to be grating #i don't want to kill myself but i wish i could #wish i wasn't a coward wish i didn't fear permanent damage or hospitals or even just pain i have no control over #nothing happened but everything sucks. existence is disappointing. i would like to stop #vent #suicide //#negative //#ask to tag #i genuinely don't know what to do now. i can't distract myself. i probably shouldn't fall asleep when I'm like that #(at least if i don't want to have nightmares like i did all week and for tomorrow to be even worse)#tbh i doubt i even COULD fall asleep like that lol my brain's working too fast as usual 😐#sigh. sorry for the vent. trying to clear some of the dirt off my psyche

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ayakashibackstreet · 10 months ago

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You know what, joining that Discord show club was a great idea, like half of my favourite PKC folks are there. And is there anything more wholesome than someone going '1!! hey, I remember that dog!! she's adorable, I'm glad she's doing well!' about a little pixel friend they made for you years ago?

#someone also said they liked one of my older petz that I got from a member of the Polish Petz community back in the day #and we went on to reminiscent about how the community used to be back then #honestly? in a way that talk is the closest thing I'll ever get to closure in regards to what happened with the PKC #and I think that with that I can actually try and move on #even though it's pretty damn tough when a niche site that's been around since you were born just...... falls apart due to technical issues #but I've done it before. SHiR felt like it would never go away too after all #and I was there with PTI practically since the very beginning and until the very end #anyways the Petz community is still so vibrant and cool #it hurts but it'll heal. It somehow hurts way more now that I'm an adult though.#maybe because now the Polish Petz community basically /has/ no home? and I've known some of those people since I was 11?#still.... all good things must come an end and I can accept it. I feel I'm slowly getting closer to that point.#maybe I'll slowly warm up to the concept of using my RKC account ahahaha.... the RKC people were always really nice after all #the Petz community at large won't die anytime soon I don't think. Most of us have been here for at least 10 years after all.#a huge chunk of them for 20+ years #again. some people have been here longer than I've been alive #it's not something that can entirely disappear

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linagram · 2 years ago

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[ 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜' 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚜 ]

here they are!! finally!!

okay, so at first i thought that i should add something like "part 1", since this post will include only the guilty trio's side characters, but i thought about it and.. i don't really think i should make profiles for other side characters too? most side characters are just the family members (like asahi's adoptive father or eiko's mother) or they're those prisoners' friends (riku's friends/bandmates, reina's friends, etc) and i don't want to make profiles for all those friend groups.

but we'll see! maybe i'll just drop some family/friends lore when i feel like it.

Side character 001: Saito Arata

Name: Saito Arata (斎藤新) (his last name means "purification, worship" and his first name means "fresh, new")

Age: 17 y/o

Gender: Male

Birth date: March 23rd (Aries)

Height: 176 cm

Blood type: AB

Occupation: High school student (first year)

Personality: Arata is an interesting and unpredictable person. It's hard to tell what's going on inside his head, but he always looks like he's up to no good. He does whatever he wants and whenever he wants and he doesn't care what others say. He's very chill and relaxed most of the time and there's only a few things that can make him angry. He's very talkative and outgoing, but he still has no friends.. Or maybe he has one, if you can call that boy his friend. It's hard to impress someone like Arata, so if you manage to do that, don't be surprised if he suddenly becomes obsessed with you and starts basically worshipping you. But also.. don't be surprised when he just as suddenly decides that he doesn't find you interesting anymore and leaves you. His interests change all the time, he can't control it. And also, even if you are like a god to him, it doesn't mean that he will forget about everything else. He's not as loyal as he likes to make people believe. Also, what's the point of being so obsessed with someone if he actually has more power than anyone else here?

Trivia:

Arata's grades aren't that good and one of the reasons why he started to like Akio is the younger boy agreeing to let him copy his homework.

Arata doesn't look exactly like Riku, but they share some other traits, like age, zodiac sign, blood type, being taller than Akio and having dark hair. Also, Riku not looking like an exact copy of Arata and Akio still liking him because of how much he reminds him of his follower can be explained as Akio missing Arata too much.

Arata is a year older than most of his classmates, but there's not any particular reason for that.

Arata really likes animals that are considered to be weird, dangerous or scary by most people and he was obsessed with insects and dinosaurs when he was a child (he still is). He also has a huge shark plushie in his room, but it's not cute at all and it's actually kinda creepy. When Akio found out about that interest of his, he tried to find as much information as possible, so that he could impress Arata with his knowledge later.

Arata actually didn't care about Akio that much when he first met him, he only had to spend time with him for reasons I can't talk about yet, but as he kept learning more about him and what kind of person he is, he started to admire him and be truly supportive of him.

Arata knew Akio's victim well not only because of them all being classmates, but also because Akio's victim really wanted to be friends with Akio and that annoyed Arata even back when he wasn't interested in Akio (or at least he thought so). When he fully turned into Akio's follower, he did everything to make his victim's life worse: from stealing his medications to "accidentally" pushing him down the stairs. Akio actually didn't need to try and "manipulate" Arata to kill the poor boy for him, Arata would do it anyway sooner or later.

If you remember, the silhouettes' eyes in Akio's MV were green (meaning envy and jealousy) and only one of them had pink eyes (meaning love and genuine support). Yes, those other figures are Akio's classmates and the pink-eyed figure is supposed to be Arata.. but only in this particular MV (symbolism, am I right), because in real life, as you have probably already noticed, Arata has heterochromia and one of his eyes is pink, meanwhile his other eye is green. And yes, I've made his eyes like that on purpose.

Remember how Akio mentioned in his interrogation that he's okay with anything his mother cooks, but something was crossed out? He actually wanted to write "anything Arata cooks", but quickly changed it to his mother, because he found it too embarrassing and he didn't want the guards to ask about Arata. The funniest thing about this is that Arata actually can't cook at all and he just bought random food and then he was like "Yeah, I've made it for you, do you like it? <3". It worked though and Arata had to hold his laugh every single time because Akio genuinely believed him.

Side character 005: Mikazuki Ruka

Name: Mikazuki Ruka (朏瑠日) (his last name means "crescent moon" and his first name means "lapis lazuli" and "sun")

Age: 21 y/o

Gender: Male

Birth date: May 19th (Taurus)

Height: 164 cm

Blood type: A

Occupation: Unemployed

Personality: Ruka wishes people would just.. ignore him or pretend he's not here. He doesn't like talking to people and finds it exhausting. Even simply being around people is too much for him. No, actually, everything is too much for him. Getting up in the morning or even simply eating or breathing is too much work for him. It would be nice if he had someone who could just.. do all of that for him. He'd be okay with doing anything in return for that.. well, if it's not too exhausting. Ah, and if this doesn't sound too weird yet, Ruka has this interesting habit of saying that he's actually dead if anyone asks him to do something he's too lazy to do or simply asks him a question about his past or how he's feeling right now. He often says something like "'Cause I'm dead" in the end of his sentences. He never explains why he does that and it seems much more serious than just him trying to come up with an excuse not to talk about something or not to do something. Maybe it's because he genuinely feels like he's actually a corpse and that's why he's always so tired?.. Ah, but don't think that he's always so cold and emotionless. He's actually very expressive, but only around one specific person.

Trivia:

Ruka's voice is very androgynous and most of the time people have to ask him about his gender. It doesn't help that he has a unisex name as well. And when someone asks him or thinks he's a girl, he simply shrugs and goes "I'm dead anyway, so it doesn't matter". He often wears skirts and dresses too.

Speaking of that habit of his, at first Kei thought that Ruka suffers from "Cotard's syndrome", a condition in which the person thinks that they're actually dead or don't have any blood or organs, but he has soon found out that Ruka knows perfectly well that he's alive, he just likes to think that he's dead, a walking corpse or even a zombie.

Ruka stopped growing when he was 14 years old and he still looks very young and people often mistake him for a teenager. When Kei first met him in a night club, he actually got worried and wondered how this kid was allowed in here. Ruka kinda likes the fact that he looks so young, since "it proves that he really has died and stopped aging".

Ruka is much more talkative around Kei in general. And just so you understand, he wasn't a "poor innocent guy who Kei has kidnapped and tortured in his basement", he was free to go anywhere he wanted to (without leaving the house, of course) and do anything that he wanted. He even made fun of Kei and made jokes like "Ah, do you like me for my childlike appearance or something? You're even more of a creep than I've thought" (Kei punched him right after that and made him take his words back because even he got uncomfortable after hearing that) and "Just beat me up and take as many photos as you want already, I wanna go to sleep as soon as we're done". He even teased him and said things like "What, is this everything you've got?" while Kei tortured him. Kei absolutely did horrible things to him, but Ruka still had more freedom than it was shown in Kei's MV and even though he's still a victim of kidnapping, he actually kind of enjoyed the process because he thought he was finally about to die for real.

The outfit that he's shown wearing has sun and moon motifs which is a reference to his name meaning. I wanted his name to be related to both sun and moon to show that he's Kei's "sun and moon", that meaning that he's Kei's everything.

According to Ruka, he doesn't have any parents or siblings and he also hates when people ask him about them. He still had a friend group (he didn't care about them at all) and he actually was basically forced to come with them to that night club from Kei's MV. They have still spent a lot of time explaining that he really is an adult This is how Kei and Ruka met and Kei went "Oh.. He's just like me fr.."

It's hard to explain what kind of relationship Kei and Ruka had, since it's hard to call them friends and they weren't really a couple. Their relationship had platonic, romantic and sexual elements, but they still had no idea who they are to each other and they mostly just treated each other like an artist and a muse at first before they started to become closer.

Side character 008: Kanasawa Takame

Name: Kanasawa Takame (金沢喬女) (her last name means "gold" and "swamp, stream" and her first name means "high, noble" and "woman")

Age: 31 y/o

Gender: Female

Birth date: November 16th (Scorpio)

Height: 170 cm

Blood type: O

Occupation: Maid cafe manager

Personality: Takame is a polite and gentle woman who is always very kind to everyone, especially her employees. She has a very good reputation and everyone knows her as a caring and understanding person who never lets her employees overwork themselves and if she sees someone making them uncomfortable, she will make sure to take care of that and protect them. She's quite passionate about anime, manga and games and that's.. uh.. one of the reasons why she decided to open a maid cafe. What about the other reasons? Haha, you don't have to know that. Maybe this woman really does have a dark side, but only one of her workers knows about it. And that worker still loves her no matter what.

Trivia:

Takame secretly has a thing for cute girls in maid outfits and that's a second reason why she opened a maid cafe.

Takame really does have a secret second job and her being a cafe manager is just something she does to hide her secrets and make herself look like a normal person who doesn't do anything illegal.

Unlike other two side characters who actually liked their prisoners, she didn't have any feelings for Yurika and just manipulated her because she knew that Yurika is the only worker who would agree to help with something like Takame's second job and she knew that Yurika really needs someone to rely on, so she promised she will take care of everything that Yurika has problems with. She thought that Yurika is cute, but that's all.

Takame really does like anime, manga and games and that's not something she made up. She believes that no matter how old you are, you should still do what you like, even if other people judge you for it.

She knew everything about Yurika's past and her problems and she knew about Yurika's relationship with her victims. She used that information to make Yurika trust her, but no matter how manipulative she was, she actually did protect Yurika from her stalkers and people who harassed her. Of course, that made Yurika like her even more, but when Takame did that, she genuinely wanted to protect Yurika because she didn't want her to go through anything like that.

#most facts are just about their relationships with their prisoners but if i tried to talk more about their backstories and personalities #it would be way too long and i also want to discuss those topics later so yeah #feel free to ask questions about them though!#no arata doesn't actually have an akio itabag BUT IF HE COULD MAKE/BUY AKIO MERCH HE WOULD #i really really like his dynamic with akio especially bc i know arata's backstory so i'm like. HHHHH THEY'RE SO INTERESTING #yes i can't believe i'm saying this but. kei and ruka's dynamic is kinda cute if you think about it #OF COURSE IT DOESN'T EXCUSE THE KIDNAPPING AND TORTURING AND BASICALLY BRAINWASHING HIM AND ALL THAT STUFF #but still it's very interesting how kei likes ruka bc he acts like kei's real self meanwhile ruka likes him because he makes him feel alive #and in a good way and he doesn't want to say that he's dead when that happens #also when i started working on lineart and looked at takame i realized that she reminds me of shidou's wife and i screamed #LIKE I THINK SHE DOESN'T HAVE THOSE VIBES NOW THAT THE DRAWING IS DONE BUT STILL #(yurika simping for shidou's wife is a hilarious concept though)#i don't know if these guys will have their own tags but again we'll see #i'll just tag their prisoners for now #👑prisoner 001: miyagawa akio👑#🍓prisoner 005: sanada kei 🍓#🎀prisoner 008: maruyama yurika 🎀#(and yes i used a chain brush for ruka listen i got lazy IT WAS SO HARD TO DRAW THIS GUY FOR SOME REASON)#(AND YOU HAVEN'T EVEN SEEN HIS FULL DESIGN YET.)

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hazbinbabbling4ever · 10 months ago

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It's almost as if ace people also want to look cute and don't have a moral obligation to dress like a mormon elementary school teacher (unless that's the vibe they want) just because they're ace?? It's almost as if ace people might want to dress cute by highlighting the parts they like about themselves and it doesn't have to be sexual at all... Like, I like to highlight my waist and people have said I'm dressing too "sexily" and "attention seeking" for someone who's not interested in flirting around. Like??? Can't a woman just dress in peace now? It's almost as if women/femme presenting/androgynous/any identity even remotely feminine-looking, all of us are burdened by preset rules and preconceptions, like "if you show this and cover that you're sEnDiNg A mEsSaGe". No Karen, I just want to exist and look cute in my clothes at the same time, there's no hidden agenda in my heels or in my synced waist, stop reading into everything.

The outfit

So if someone is asexual they have dress like a nun or something???

#also hate when I dress comfy and people say I dress “frumpily” because I don't “care about myself” thus I'm “sending the wrong message”#or when I dress masculine looking I'm “sending an I'm unavailable message” to men #good???#those are the kind of men I want ten feet away from me #anyone who thinks like that regardless of gender actually #I am barely alive most days (or that's how I feel right now) I have 0 emotional energies left to sEnD mEsSagEs with my clothes #plus I have sensory issues so I wear anything that makes me feel good doesn't pull or pinch or itch #and if they make me feel cute bonus #if they don't who cares I will channel my inner tired middle aged sweatpants dad energy #does any of this make sense #babbelbabbles #in the tags

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sceletaflores · 3 months ago

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slippin' and slidin' all over you!

pair: logan howlett x fem!reader

wc: 4k

contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, sweating, mutual masturbation, sweat licking (i don't know???), not-so-dry humping, p in v, JUST THE TIP RAHHH, creampie, fingering (fem!recieving), oral sex (fem!receiving), come swapping, come eating, literally over four thousand words of pure nasty smut, this is gross lowkey, idk i'm h*rny, porn w/o plot, no use of y/n.

nat’s note: very much not the winner or even an option of the poll i posted last week but...shhh don't hate me. it’s october and over 80 every single day, what the fuck is that? only good thing that came from this heat is thoughts of nasty sweaty sex with logan. once again shoutout to my wonderful husband @ebodebo for reading this over for me (i successfully changed her vendetta against sucking up some man sweat...which was the real point of this fic tbh) go give her fics some love if you're a slut for ghost! kisses!

logan forgot to fix the ac...

It's too hot out to be alive. 36°C and sunny.

One of the hottest days in recent memory for Alberta, and you're really feeling it.

"Remind me," you say slowly, the first words spoken in almost ten minutes. "How many times did I ask you to fix the air conditioner?"

"Don't start," Logan says from his spot across the room. His head is tipped back to rest on the couch cushion, eyes slipped shut.

You ignore him, lazily rolling your head to the side to look at him through squinted eyes, your brows furrowed in thought. "Was it ten? Or maybe thirteen?"

Logan huffs a breath, slow and heavy, but he doesn't move--doesn't even open his eyes. “I said don’t start,” he mutters again, though there’s the faintest edge of a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

"Don't worry baby," you say, voice pitched lower in a terrible impersonation of Logan. "I'll get to it, promise. Won’t get too hot for another couple months."

Logan finally cracks an eye open, just enough to give you a sideways glance, his mouth twitching with amusement. "You done?"

You hum noncommittally, the sound lingering in the air like the lazy summer breeze doing nothing to cool the temperature outside. Your gaze slips down the side of his face to trace the jut of his jaw, then lower to the sweaty column of his neck.

Both you and Logan lost most of your clothes earlier in the day, too hot to bother wearing anything but underwear. You trudged around the house like zombies until you finally gave up on trying to be productive, you both ended up in the living room.

All the windows are cracked open, trying in vain to let in any cool air. You claimed the armchair closest to the fan, refusing to be anywhere near Logan and the massive heat wave he constantly gives off.

Logan’s on the couch, stripped down to the thinnest pair of sleep shorts you’ve ever seen. His chest is bare, glistening with a thin sheen of sweat that mats the dark hair dusted along his pecs to his skin.

You can’t help the way your eyes follow the drops of moisture that slide slowly down the contours of his abs. A low heat starting to swirl through your gut when it disappears into his happy trail.

It's funny. When you basically peeled yourself off your mattress this morning, sex was the absolute last thing on your mind.

Now, as your eyes glide over the strong expanse of Logan's body on full display, you're having second thoughts.

Maybe it just comes with the heat. That sort of slow, syrupy feeling that slides along your overheated skin to pulse pleasantly between your thighs.

A bead of sweat slides down the length of your spine slowly, falling until it soaks into the damp waistband of your panties. You try to not notice how Logan is halfway across the room, not touching you.

You fail.

“It’s just a shame, though,” you start, fingers idly toying with the hem of your tank top. “If it was cooler, I could come over there.”

You slide a leg up, letting it rest against the wooden rest, newly exposed skin gleaming under the sunlight filtering in.

The move isn't lost on Logan. You see his jaw clench slightly, the tiniest shift in his posture.

"Something you wanted?" Logan asks, his voice going low and teasing. "Looks like you've been gettin' yourself all worked up over there."

“Just thinking,” you reply, shifting slightly on the sticky leather of the chair.

Logan’s fingers twitch at his sides, his chest rising and falling with slow, measured breaths. His eyes slide the rest of the way open, his gaze heavy and lingering as it ventures down to where your thin shirt sticks to your skin, outlining every curve.

“Oh yeah?” he prompts, his voice a little rougher now. “Thinkin’ about what, baby?”

“You,” you say easily, fingers slipping down to your thigh. You bring your other leg up, perching it against the opposite armrest. Your thighs spread wide enough that you know Logan has a full view of the wet spot growing along the gusset of your panties.

The hitch in Logan’s breath has you stifling a smug smile, taking your bottom lip between your teeth as you watch the way his chest starts rising faster.

"That's real sweet, sugar," he drawls, an unimpressed look on his face as he drags his eyes back up to your own. "But if you're tryin' to get me over there, you're gonna have to do better than that." His voice slides through the air heavy and warm like molasses.

You bite back a grin, enjoying the slow game that's unfolding between the two of you.

"Maybe I don’t want you to come over here," you let your fingers trail a little lower, just to the edge of your panties, teasing. “Maybe I like you right where you are.”

Logan’s brow raises, his thighs tensing before he spreads them just a touch wider. The fabric of his boxers goes taut over the strong muscle, riding up to expose even more hairy skin to your greedy eyes.

"You're playin' with fire, kid," he warns.

The tent in his shorts is obvious now, the hard length of his cock pressing against the fabric where it lays across his thigh. Your other hand twitches by your side at just the sight, your pussy throbbing with the sudden need to be filled.

"Am I?" you murmur, your fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your panties, just enough to make sure he knows exactly where this is headed. ”It’s not like you’re going to do anything about it, you’re too busy pouting."

With a deliberate slowness, you slide your fingers lower, brushing against your clit with just enough pressure to let out a soft gasp at the contact. You arch your back slightly, relishing in the way the air feels against your skin, hot and sticky.

You want him to see how badly you need him—how his heat is the only thing that could truly satisfy the insatiable ache building between your legs.

Logan's nostrils flare, jaw tightening and eyes darkening at the sight of you teasing yourself. His restraint is slipping, and you can practically feel the tension building in the room, thick and stifling like the oppressive summer heat.

But he still doesn’t move, doesn’t rush over like you expect him to. Instead, he shifts his hips slightly, spreading his legs wider and letting his hand fall on his thigh.

You can’t help the way your breath quickens at the sight, the way his fingers drift dangerously close to his own growing bulge, teasing you just as much as you’re teasing him.

You tilt your head to the side, gazing at him through your lashes. “You're really just gonna leave me hanging?” you goad, fingers circling lazily around your sensitive clit. “Come on stud, whip it out.”

Logan chuckles low, a sound that sends shivers through you. "Is that what you want, baby?" he asks, voice thick and taunting, a smirk curling on his lips. “You want me to whip it out for you?”

“Yeah,” you murmur breathlessly, biting your lip as you maintain eye contact, your breath starting to come in short bursts. “I need to see you, Logan. Need to see how hard you are for me.”

“Need to, huh,” he muses slowly, fingers finally grazing over the hard length of his cock. “What’s in it for me?”

“How about this?” You slip your hand out from your ruined panties, fingers glistening with your own wetness as you hook your thumbs on either side and drag them down your legs.

You let the soaked cotton fall to the floor, leaving you completely exposed to him.

Logan’s pupils dilate, an inky black completely swallowing the warm hazel. He licks his lips slowly, the tip of his tongue running along his teeth like he wants to sink them into you. His cock twitches visibly beneath his shorts, the growing tension in the air between you thick enough to choke on.

“Fuck,” he breathes out, his voice low and gravelly, more of a growl than a word.

You smile, shifting in the chair to give him an even better view, your legs spreading wider. "Yeah?" you purr, running your fingers over your slick inner thigh, feeling the heat radiating from your own skin. “You like what you see?”

Logan swallows hard, his hand finally slipping beneath the waistband of his shorts, palming his cock as he watches you. “You know I do,” he says, voice rougher than before.

You let your hand trail back down to your clit, rubbing it in slow, teasing circles as you hold his gaze. “Then show me, Logan,” you whisper, your voice almost a plea now. "I wanna see you."

Logan lets out a low, rumbling groan, his fingers making quick work of shoving his shorts down enough to free his cock. It springs free to slap lewdly against his stomach and you can’t help the moan that escapes your lips at the sight.

He strokes himself slowly to start, his eyes locked on you, watching your every reaction, feeding off the way your chest rises and falls in quick, shallow breaths.

"Like this?" he asks, his tone taunting as he strokes himself from base to tip, his thumb swiping over the head with a low hiss. “That what you wanted?”

Your breath catches in your throat at the sight of him, straining and in his hand. The sight of his thumb brushing over the tip of his cock sends a hot, electric pulse through your body, your hand between your legs moving in time with his slow strokes.

"Yeah," you whisper, voice trembling with need. "Just like that."

You slip your hand lower, sliding two fingers inside yourself with a low moan. Logan groans like he’s the one being touched, his hand speeds up, eyes glued to where your fingers disappear in your slick heat.

His cock leaks pre-come over his knuckles each time his fist passes over the dripping head, the wet sound of it mixing with the low hum of the fan and your own breathy sighs.

"You look so fuckin' good like this honey," Logan groans, his voice rough, strained. "All spread out, playing with that pretty pussy for me."

You whimper at his words, your body aching for more than just your own touch. You need him, need the feel of his rough hands on your skin, his mouth, his cock—anything.

Your fingers move faster, slipping deeper inside with each pump, but it’s still not enough. The stretch is nothing compared to taking Logan, to the feeling of him carving a place for his thick cock inside your pussy, hitting that spot inside you that your fingers can’t quite reach.

Your hips buck up towards your hand, your back arching off the chair as your free hand clutches the armrest tightly.

Logan’s pace quickens, his fist pumping his cock with a new urgency, heavy balls bouncing with every rough tug.

��God, look at you, such a needy fuckin’ thing” he growls, chest heaving as his gaze flicks between your flushed face and the glistening mess you’re making of yourself like he can’t decide where to look. “You want it bad, don’t you?”

"Please," you whine, desperation creeping into your voice. Too keyed up to draw this out any longer. “I need you inside me, Logan. I can’t take it anymore.”

Logan groans, a sound that rumbles deep in his chest. His hand falters slightly on his cock, squeezing hard around the base as your words push him dangerously close to the edge. His jaw clenches, eyes raking over you, and with a growl, he stands.

The last threads of his restraint snapping.

He crosses the room in two long strides, towering over you where you sit. His cock swollen and hard, sways between his legs with every step, glistening with pre-come that drips to the floor. His eyes, hooded and burning, drink you in as he reaches down, yanking your hand away from your slick heat.

“Thought you said it was too hot to move,” you tease breathlessly, unable to quit egging him on even when your legs start to tremble with need, spreading wider to welcome him.

Logan ignores you, tugging your hand to his lips. Your breath catches in your chest, a weak moan escaping you as he takes your soaked fingers in his mouth. His tongue swirling along your skin to taste you, his eyes never leaving yours as he does.

“Changed my mind,” he growls, strong hands rough and possessive as they drop your wrist and haul you out of the chair so he can spin around, collapsing into it with you in his lap. The wood gives a warning creak beneath you but neither of you care.

Not when his mouth is on yours, hot and demanding as he slides his tongue past the seam of your lips. The heat radiating off his body is suffocating, but you welcome it—craving the weight of him on you.

You melt against him, feeling the hard planes of his body against yours, every inch of him alive and pulsating with need. Logan’s hands find their way to your hips, fingers digging in just enough to send a rush coursing through you.

It’s intoxicating, the way he devours you, his hands exploring every inch of your back, grasping and pulling you impossibly closer.

The hard jut of his cock presses against your thigh, a thick plane of heat that makes your pussy throb with need. You shift your hips, grinding down on him in messy circles.

“You feel that?” he growls, lips brushing against your ear. “That’s all for you, darlin’.”

“Need you,” you whimper, grinding down against him faster, desperate for the friction that sends pleasure rippling through you. “Please, Logan, I need you inside me now.”

“Hold on, baby,” he murmurs, his voice low and husky, sending sparks all up your spine.

He dips his head, capturing your lips again, while his hands roam hungrily down your sides, fingers curling around your thighs to urge your legs open wider. “You wanna tease me, you’re gonna have to get off just like this.”

Logan angles his hips so that his cock slips between your drenched folds the next time you roll your own down.

The hot, slick glide sends electric shocks of pleasure racing through you, your body responding instinctively to his touch. You gasp against his lips, fingers tangling in his hair as you push down, desperate for more.

“God, you’re so fuckin’ wet,” he growls, his voice dripping with lust as he watches your movements with hungry eyes. “Just for me, huh? She’s droolin’ just for me.”

You nod breathlessly, chasing the friction, craving the feel of him so close. You lift your hips and rock back down again, the blunt head of his cock brushing against your swollen clit, and you feel your body pulse in response.

“More,” you plead, leaning in to nibble at his lower lip. “I need it.”

Logan pulls away, shaking his head with a wicked grin. “Come on, tough shot,” he says, giving your ass a quick smack and kneading the tender flesh in his hand roughly. “You’re gonna come like this, you can do it baby.”

You whine, dropping your chin to your chest. Your hands find his shoulders, nails digging crescent moons into the strong muscle. Your chest slips slickly against his, the front of your tank almost entirely soaked with sweat.

Yours or his, it doesn't matter. The white cotton turned transparent enough that your breasts are on full display, nipples hard and visible.

You watch a single bead of sweat make its way down the length of his throat. It trickles down and down and down until it dips between the pronounced muscles of his chest.

You duck your head, dragging your tongue up the valley of his pecs. A deep moan bursts from your lips, pussy drooling more slick over Logan’s cock at the coarse feel of his thick hair on your tongue, at the heady taste of his sweat filling your senses.

Logan groans, hands tightening their hold on your waist. The dull ache his strength leaves behind is enough to let you know that two hand shaped bruises will be blooming over your skin by tomorrow morning.

“Come on, girly,” he encourages, nipping at the sweaty column of your throat, the sharp points of his teeth scraping along the sensitive skin deliciously. “Fuck me, give it to me good.”

Your hips speed up, his hard cock sliding through the slick folds of your cunt faster. The tip bumps against your clit deliciously with every move, smearing pre-come along the way to add even more to the mess between your legs.

“Gonna fuckin’ fill you up,” he groans, breath puffing warm and hot agasint the slick skin of your lips. “Pump you so full of my come you’ll be leakin’ for a goddamn week.”

He shifts underneath you, the tip of his cock catching on your entrance just enough for it to push inside on the next grind of your hips.

The barely there fullness has you coming with a sharp cry, nails roughly dragging down Logan’s back hard enough to leave red welts that heal as you go.

The pain mixing with the pleasure of finally getting to feel the warm, wet suction of your pussy has Logan coming with a rough shout of your name. He throws his head back, hands tightening their grip on your hips enough to have your bones grinding together as he pumps you full of his come.

“Logan…” you mewl, your pussy fluttering over the tip of his cock, greedy little clenches like you're trying to suck him the rest of the way in. Drunk on the way his release paints your insides, how you can feel each thick spray coating your walls to claim you in the rawest way.

Logan pulls back just far enough to meet your gaze, his eyes dark and smoldering as he watches you squirm in his lap.

"You’re not tapping out on me already, are you?" he teases, his voice rough and gravelly. "I thought you were tougher than that."

A weak, breathy laugh escapes you, but it’s cut short when he applies just a little more pressure, making your thighs quiver. "Not tapping out," you manage between shallow breaths, your head falling back against the chair. "But you’re—fuck—you’re insatiable."

Logan smirks, leaning in to nip at the sensitive skin of your throat, his teeth scraping just enough to send shivers coursing through you.

"When it comes to you, baby?" he murmurs against your skin, the heat of his breath fanning over your pulse point. "Fuckin’ always."

A lazily smile takes over your lips as you tighten your core and push, the rest of Logan’s come leaking out over his fingers. Logan groans, pressing his forehead to your shoulder to try and ground himself.

His cock throbs where it sways heavily between his thighs, still hard and ready to go even after he just came. His hand slips down your body, thick fingers running through the creamy mess of come and slick to messily push it back inside you.

“Fuckin’ shit, honey,” he groans lowly, pressing his thumb to your clit. “You’re gonna kill me.”

Before you can respond, he stands again, gently placing your trembling form back into the chair and dropping to his knees in front of you.

Your breath hitches, legs widening despite the way your pussy shakes with overstimulation, like you can’t help but spread your legs for Logan anytime he wants.

Logan smirks up at you from between your legs, his lips already ghosting over the inside of your thigh. "Look at you," he growls, voice low and filled with lust. "Still so needy."

The slick heat of his tongue runs along your folds, lapping at the mess he just made of you. You let out a sharp gasp, thighs trembling as your fingers weave into his hair, tugging him closer.

The sensation is overwhelming—the rough, demanding pace of his tongue as it swirls around your clit, teasing you, while his hands grip your thighs with bruising force. Keeping you exactly where he wants you, keeping you spread open for his tongue.

Your body arches off the chair with a loud cry, every nerve alight with raw pleasure as he feasts on you, his growls vibrating against your sensitive skin.

"Fuck! Logan," you moan breathlessly, head falling back as you try to keep up with the sensations he's pulling from you.

The heat that was pooling low in your belly reignites, stoked by the way his tongue flicks faster against your clit, each stroke sending you higher.

Logan doesn’t let up, his tongue delving deeper, drinking in every moan, every shaky gasp as he drives you closer to the edge. He moans into your pussy, his own arousal clear in the way his hips buck into the air, seeking any kind of friction.

You tug on his hair harder, desperate for more, for release. "Logan, please," you whimper, your voice barely above a whisper, thick with need.

"Atta’ girl," he rasps, his voice thick with desire as he watches your face contort with pleasure. "So fuckin’ pretty like this. You gonna give me another one, baby? Gonna come for me again?"

Every lick, every rough squeeze to your thighs, every teasing stroke sends you spiraling closer to that edge you’re dying to reach again. You can feel the heat radiating off him, his breath hot against your soaked skin and driving you wild.

“Logan, I—” You gasp, fingers tightening in his hair, urging him closer, closer, closer. “I’m so close—”

His eyes flick up to meet yours, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, nose and jaw glistening in your juices.

"Give it to me," he growls, the rough rasp of his voice sending a shiver through your overheated body. "I wanna feel you come on my tongue."

It’s all the encouragement you need. With a strangled cry, your body tenses, thighs quaking as the orgasm crashes over you.

Logan keeps his mouth on you, tongue working you through every pulse, drawing it out until you’re trembling and gasping, your body boneless in the chair.

When you finally come down, panting and spent, Logan pulls away. With one last kiss pressed over your clit, he makes his way up your body, not dropping eye contact as he settles over you.

His hand comes up to your face, thumbs meanly hooking into either side of your cheeks to gently force your mouth open. You part your lips willingly, the heat still radiating between you, a mix of lingering pleasure.

Logan leans in, and the intoxicating scent of sweat and sex surrounds you as he spits what he collected from between your legs back into your own mouth.

Your cheeks burn with shame, a broken moan ringing through the space between you. Your glassy eyes stare into Logan’s, his own gaze so intense and all consuming you fight the urge to squirm.

"Swallow," he commands, unwavering.

You hesitate for just a moment, caught off guard by the pure audacity, but the way his eyes darken with hunger makes your resolve crumble. With a breathless whimper, you obey, tasting the remnants of your own pleasure mingling with his, the act both humiliating and intensely arousing.

Logan watches you closely, his gaze never straying as you swallow, a dirty smirk creeping onto his lips. “That's my girl,” he praises, his tone thick with satisfaction.

As the taste lingers on your tongue, you can feel the weight of Logan’s stare like a physical touch.

“Think you can handle another round?” he teases, his voice low and sultry. “I don’t plan on letting you off that easy, kid. Not with all that mouthing off earlier.”

You catch your breath, shaking your head in exasperation. “You’re relentless,” you whisper, a hint of laughter in your voice, though your body betrays you, already craving more.

“Only for you, baby” he replies, brushing the strands of hair plastered to your sweaty forehead behind your ear. “Only for you.”

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mini nat's note: i started my period today chickens...that explains it...

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