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bejeweledinterludes · 2 days ago

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givin’ it all.

OR touch starved ! dean, part 2. you ask, i answer <3

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read part 1 here!

「 pairing 」 : touch starved ! dean x fem ! reader

「 word count 」 : 5.9k

「 content / warnings 」 : late seasons sad n soft!dean, vulnerability to da max (again), emotions, emotions, EMOTIONS, past trauma, confessions?

you have one ( 1 ) new message from the author ! ↓

surprise! here is a lovely part 2 for the people that asked and in honor of my bday month starting! BUTTTT most importantly, this is a thank you for 600+ followers !!!!!!!!!!!!!!! i hope all of you know that i appreciate every single one of you that enjoys and interacts with my writing! it means the world, truly. once again, thank you all so much for the continued and ongoing support + love! i hope you all enjoy this one! and special thanks to @emeraldcrs + @maddie0101 (even though i ended up not doing what i said i was going to LMFAO <3)

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dean’s touch problem was getting out of hand.

ever since that night in your bedroom, he’s wished he could be there again, laying next to you every night— he’d even actually got the courage to get out of his bed one night when he couldn’t sleep to go to your room, but he never knocked on your door.

he did, however, sit down next to it in the hallway until he got tired enough that he had to fight to keep his eyes open, then went back to his own room.

you hadn’t even treated him any differently, either. you had still smiled at him when he walked into the kitchen that morning when you were already sitting with sam, like you always did— and you hadn’t said a word about the night before, when you held him like he’d always wanted to be held.

and god, did he want more.

dean wanted everything, actually. anything you had to offer. he’d take a squeeze on his shoulder, a ruffle of his hair— but hell, you did that pretty regularly already. and who was he to just ask for more?

dean winchester did not ask for things. he wasn’t allowed. he’s done just fine up until now without the touch of another human being, so why couldn’t the ache in his chest go away after your fingers left his skin? after that night?

it felt pathetic, wanting to need it. and to make matters worse, dean wanted all of you. it was selfish. you didn’t deserve someone like him, he knew it. but then again, you never flirted with anyone at the bars, ever. even when you all first started hunting together. and when he’d asked you about it (not so casually), you shrugged and told him the truth, because you always did— that as crazy and stupid as it sounded, you’d wanted something, someone real.

and dean?

he wanted to be the one to give that to you.

that’s when he knew he was in trouble.

because of too many things, really— what if you died, again? what if he died, again? and what happens when you ultimately rejected him, because if dean winchester was anything, it was unloveable.

but charlie said she loved him. sam told him once in a while, too— and you’d said it the first time you ‘died’, then came back. he never brought that up. neither did you. but he just wanted to hear you say it again.

so he could say it back this time.

dean hated the way he felt when the people he loved actually showed him that they maybe cared about him, too— like the way a person feels when an entire room is singing ‘happy birthday’ to them and they don’t know what to do with themselves.

and yet, time and time again, dean found himself desperate for it. and he didn’t even know what ‘it’ was half the time.

but being around you when he felt like that helped. a lot.

dean didn’t know what it was, or when it even started, but he always gravitated towards you. always had to be around you, be near you. and you never once pointed it out. you just let him into your space, your bubble, even your hobbies— and sometimes, doing literally nothing at all.

it was one of the reasons dean loved you. yeah, yeah, he said it, whatever. leave him alone. it seemed like any time you were near, he was more relaxed. not fully, of course— but his shoulders felt less tight and his jaw wasn’t sore from clenching it so hard.

he breathed easier. without realizing it, you helped dean take his mind off things (but of course you damn well knew that. why else would you have invited him to go to the post office with you?).

and he craved it.

if dean got captured by a jinn right now, you’d be there. you’re all he’s wanted. you, maybe a house— screw anything else, honestly. if you were there, so was he. but he’d definitely prefer you sitting on the hood of baby— yeah, his two girls. that was a little strange analogy though, because he’s thought about fucking you right on top of baby. or inside, on the seats. maybe even under—?

this djinn-fantasy thing was starting to sound a lot like just a sex dream.

wouldn’t be the first time dean had one about you, though.

besides. you were all he dreamed about, anyway.

but this night, he was wishing he had a dream like that. no. tonight, he was having yet another goddamn nightmare.

the barely-lit light on dean’s desk (he says he ‘accidentally’ leaves it on once in a while, but he really uses it as a makeshift night light. don’t tell anyone i told you that) cast soft dim glow on the concrete walls of his bedroom. the room was quiet, except for the occasional hum of machinery coming from somewhere in the bunker.

yet dean's mind? anything but peaceful. images, smells, sounds, and memories were piercing his mind— hell, purgatory, failed hunts, you name it. and the faces of people he’d lost, people he’d tortured were clear as day— the pain, the hurt, it was all there, as usual; but ten times worse tonight, it seemed. screams, snarls, gunshots, and his father’s voice echoed off of the traumas he was reliving.

he doesn’t know when his eyes had snapped open. but now dean was sitting up pin-straight in his bed, his breathing more like choppy gasps as he held and pointed his gun at— nothing. and his throat hurt, why did his throat hurt—?

oh.

it wasn’t just screams of other people.

it was his own this time. dean had screamed out loud.

a few rooms away, you were also jolted awake by dean's scream. it was so loud that it had even carried through the thick concrete walls of the bunker that were separating you both. you shot up from your bed, years of instincts kicking in and legs moving before your sleepy mind could catch up— or think twice.

because the only thing that was going through your freshly-awoken mind?

the absolute worst.

you made it to dean’s door in record time, swinging it wide open with your own gun at the ready to fight something— but the sight you were met with was not the one you had been expecting.

at all.

dean was still sitting up straight, but now barely-relaxed, rapidly blinking his eyes with his trembling hand still holding his gun, adjusting to the still-dim but brighter light flooding his room, to feeling damp in his clothes instead of all bloody and broken, to the echoes of screams being replaced with the white noise of the bunker–

and to… you.

yeah, you. standing in his doorway, hand on the edge of his door (you’d caught it as it bounced back from you essentially tearing it open), your own gun now at your side instead of drawn. your hair was all messy, clothes a little bunched up in places, breathing a little unevenly, yet not as much as him— but you still looked breathtaking, nightmare aside.

dean didn’t know what the hell kind of water you were drinking to make you look like that. even being freshy pulled from sleep like him, you looked beautiful. pretty, gorgeous, stunning? dean couldn’t find a word, and he doesn’t think he ever will.

and him.

oh, him.

dean always looked good— to the point where it bordered on you wanting to rip your hair out, most days. and despite what de’d just gone through, he still looked good. kidding aside, you craved the times you were able to see him like this more than you cared to admit to yourself.

not because he was in pain, or suffering the traumas of his less-than-peaceful life— but because it reminded you that even dean, for as everything that he was: a hero, larger than life, better than any hunter, still had moments like… this. when the memories became real life again. when the thoughts and his past actions echoed in his mind like taunts.

when you saw him like this: sweat all over, hair sticking up, eyes like they didn’t know what was real, you saw a piece of dean that few— or none at all had seen. most times, it felt like you were intruding on something private, sacred. and every realistically-thinking cell in your body screamed that you shouldn’t be here, seeing this. seeing dean.

but that little voice in your head just wouldn’t listen.

it never did. not when it told you that maybe dean didn’t touch you like he did everyone else— because hell.

he never touched anyone else. only you.

he’d do it all the time, so frequently and without a word that you weren’t sure he was aware he was actually doing it. dean sat so close to you what seemed like 24/7, like a magnet. in a booth, at a bar, wherever. you’d gotten so used to it, it had been unusual not to have the solid warmth of dean next to you when you’d gone off on your own to interview witnesses on a case.

and you would catch him playing with your hair on more than one occasion. and while dean got all embarrassed, you just smiled a little, then went back to reading the old-ass book you’d been poured over (but not without first nonchalantly adjusting yourself so he got more access to your hair).

dean would never forget it.

because that’s who you were, essentially. taking all the pieces of him in tow with you. all the dirty, messed up, strewn-about shards of him, scattered like a discarded shattered vase on the floor— and just accepting it.

and you never tried to ‘fix’ him, but in some way, you still somehow were. without really ever talking about it, or maybe even knowing. but when those times that only occurred on a rare occasion that dean would talk, the words spilling out and overflowing— but you never judged him. only listened. spoke when it was needed from you.

it meant everything.

and more.

dean would hug you almost every five minutes when he was too drunk to stand straight, you had learned one night early on in your friendship. when his ‘hey, maybe we shouldn’t do that’ voice in his head was silenced, he was kinda (a lot) all over you. because yes, he was much touchier when he was drunk, especially around you.

even now, after years since it happened, you still remembered the way his broad, loose frame had crumpled against you— and you caught him.

just like now.

you’d snapped over whatever the hell just came over you— and you weren’t sure how long you’d been standing there, but you hoped it wasn’t as long as you thought it to be, then slowly shut dean’s door behind you with a click, enveloping you both in the dim light this time.

because no way in any world were you about to leave dean alone after seeing him like this.

you pad across his room like you’d done a million times before— but never in this way. this late in the night? sure, but not like now.

you weren’t really thinking. because let’s be honest here: for every critical and rational thought you had, dean seemed to just… make them all disappear from your mind.

not in the survival sense, but in the ‘really, what’s stopping me from just kissing him’ viewpoint. so much so that you had to literally force yourself to not do anything. to not cross that line. you weren’t sure if he even knew that he was aware he was doing it to you, yet it still happened. a lot.

but back to now. back to dean’s room, to the light being returned to normal, and dean’s wondering why the hell is it so cold? he was still just a complete mess, his frayed and raw nerves only being held together by skin, blood and bones. he shut his eyes and kept them like that, trying to banish the memories from his mind, to just snap the hell out of it. he could hear this ringing in his ears, and it was so loud, he just wanted it to stop—

and suddenly, it did.

dean didn’t even realize you’d started holding him until the scent of you finally flooded his senses. until he felt how warm you were. until he felt your hair on the side of his face. until he felt and heard your breathing.

during the aftermath, you’d somehow managed to gently pry dean’s gun out of his hand, setting yours and his on his desk before you’d gotten on his bed and sat with him, hugged him.

when his eyes finally opened, just for a split-second— the only sight he was met with wasn’t the pit, or purgatory, just the guns. the metal had glinted off of his desk light, his vision only slightly impaired by your hair.

your hair. why did it smell so good. and why was it so soft. the world may never know, dean thinks. well, he does know. you’d told him one night while putting something in your hair, and he had been walking past the doorway. he’d teased you about your ‘girly stuff’, but you didn’t even bat an eye.

that was another thing he’d noticed about you. you didn’t change yourself based on other’s opinions. you were secure in who you were, and didn’t need approval from anyone else to feel your best. it was one of the things dean wished he could do for real and not just as a front, as a defense.

you were confident, but you still asked him once in a while if you looked okay, more so in the most recent years.

and dean could never lie to you. he always said “‘course y’do”.

but that night, you’d shrugged, then just told him about whatever the hell you were putting on your head, explaining it in a way he’d understand if he’d been listening— but dean had been a little to focused on your lips moving and not enough on the words actually coming out of them.

dean found himself burying his face into your hair now, half into your neck and chest, his breath coming out uneven and in short pants against your skin. he allowed his eyes to flutter shut again as he just let himself sink into you, resting his head on your shoulder, arms finding your waist. he felt the adrenaline wearing off, but his heart was still pounding in his chest, and he felt his shoulders trembling. his mind was starting to adjust, but he felt like he’d just gotten off a treadmill after running on it too fast.

and dean felt so weak. even more so now than he ever had. a shell of himself, a whole grown-ass man crumpled into you like he was a little kid again, scared of the dark.

if his dad could see him now.

if sam saw him right now. oh, sam would finally see that his brother wasn’t the tower of light, safety he’d always viewed him as. he’d treat him differently, for sure. dean was no longer the protector, the one who watched over everyone and everything. too much had happened to sam, to the people he loved for that to be even a fraction of true anymore.

what was true, though?

dean was a failure.

in every sense of the word. he’d failed innocent people, family, friends— everyone more times than he could count.

but his mind remembered.

and it reminded him every night.

dean used to have the sense that he was at least doing something right, but as of late, everything he’d done so far was nothing short of one disappointment after the other. it was pitiful, really— he was a freakin’ hunter, for god’s sakes. you’d think he’d get a goddamn win once in a while. but not for a long time, it seemed.

and this was just yet another failure, another thing he absolutely sucked at. dean couldn’t even get back to normal after a nightmare without someone being there to hold him. it was pathetic, humiliating— but he couldn’t bring himself to let go of you.

somehow, that was his breaking point. the last straw.

dean finally just… broke.

you didn’t even realize what was happening until you heard the smallest strangled, trapped noise came out from the man you were essentially holding together, muffled against you— but you still heard it.

all it took for dean winchester to cry these days?

a hug, apparently.

the tears had been welling up in dean’s eyes faster than he could will them away— and he just couldn’t do it anymore. couldn’t put up the front he’d always been able to. he tried, god he tried so hard, but he was still shaking, for christ’s sakes— and he’d just woken up.

the more dean thought about it, the more your arms seemed like a good place to finally let it all out. you’d always treated him with kindness he didn’t deserve, so he just prayed that you wouldn’t push him away. that you would just let him have this. he doesn't think he could handle you rejecting him in this way right now.

and when you hear a slight sniff against you, you almost couldn’t believe it. dean didn’t cry. he got angry, upset, went non-verbal– but the one thing you hadn’t seen him do (at least in front of you) in all the years you’d known him, is cry.

but you weren’t leaving.

no, you just held him tighter, adjusting your grip and the way you were sitting so dean was more comfortable. you didn’t lay down, but you pulled him closer to you, running a hand up and down his back.

it’s not like you could say anything. what the hell could you say?

well.

one thing did come to mind.

so with your hand still gently rubbing dean’s back, you moved your head just a fraction so it could rest on his, whispering close to his ear.

“i got you.”

and that was it.

dean’s eyes screwed further shut, lip wobbling as he gripped way harder onto you, like you were the only lifeboat left in a choppy sea. like you were going to keep him here, like he’d suddenly fall apart, die if he let go.

and he let go—

figuratively.

you’d never heard a sob come out of dean before, but that night, you decided you never wanted to hear it after this. because it was physically hurting you to hear dean right now.

but you didn’t dare let him go. you held dean in your arms, still running a hand on his back, and he cried into your chest like he was four years old again, his entire body trembling against yours with the force of how much his sobs were wracking through his form.

this wasn’t just about dean’s nightmare. this was everything. the decades of holding things in, pushing them down, then moving on without ever unpacking it— it was all bursting through the floodgates, roaring in his ears, his senses.

broken sounds left his throat, almost choking on them. they were coming straight from the place dean dared not to ever touch in his heart. but he didn’t care how loud he was anymore, or how embarrassing this must be, how humiliating—

because you said that you had him.

and you wanted nothing more than to take every ounce, every inch of pain, heartbreak, suffering, and loss that made up the man you loved away from him so he didn’t have to deal with it.

dean didn’t deserve any of it. he deserved to be normal.

to have a life.

and damn you wanted to give that to him, so badly.

but for now, you’d just hold him. give him a place to rest. to let everything go.

to be the solace he needed, he deserved.

neither you or dean knew how long he’d stayed like that, but you both didn’t say a word the entire time you held him— the only sounds that filled his room were his less-than-quiet sobs (god he hoped sam hadn’t made it home from elieen’s yet) and the faint rustle of his sheets.

but at some point, with a final sniff, dean lifted his head from your shoulder, but didn’t meet your eyes. couldn’t.

he was so ashamed of himself, his actions. it didn’t matter that you guys had been friends however long, this was not supposed to be the side of him you saw. he’d seen you comfort dozens, maybe even hundreds of crying people on cases— because of lost loved ones, or because they had seen something too scary.

dean just never thought he’d be one of them.

you didn’t say anything at first. dean, eyes and face still wet with tears, was looking down between you both, eyes fixed on your pyjama pants’ pattern. he was avoiding the obvious, the pill he had to swallow. he’d just cried like a baby into you.

he could see the wetness on your shirt from the corner of his eye, but he dared not look up all the way. god, this was humiliating. you’d probably move out of the bunker after this.

because no way does dean come back from a stunt like he just pulled. staying in your bed is one thing, but the fact that he just broke down in front of you? you’d never see him the same, never look at him the same– and even if there was any chance of it before, no way in hell were you ever going to look at him in the way he wanted you to look at him.

he’d messed up big-time— again. the only thing he swore to never ruin, to never take away from himself, it all just unraveled because he was a goddamn crybaby. an idiot. why did he do that? just let himself? was he seriously that braindead that he couldn’t—

dean’s pulled out of the spiral of thoughts he’d conjured up for himself when he feels a hand under his jaw.

your hand.

dean’s breath was all out of whack, courtesy of crying— but his next inhale literally gets stuck somewhere when your free hand uses your fingers to wipe the tears off his face.

you hadn’t really registered the fact that you’d even started doing that until you see dean’s glassy and red-rimmed eyes meet yours in his barley-lit room. all you’d been thinking was that you wanted to see him. and when you saw all the wetness on his face, how ashamed he looked, you didn’t think.

case in point: you never did.

not when it came to dean.

and dean just melts all over again. you could’ve teased him, poked fun, even just got up and left— but instead, your arms are still halfway around him. you’re leaning over by his nightstand, grabbing a tissue for the snot and larger tear tracks.

he should feel embarrassed. at least a little gross.

but he didn’t.

he just felt you.

dean let his eyes flutter shut, because this had to be a dream now. he wasn’t expecting this from you, but damn if he didn’t need it. every gentle brush of your fingers on his face felt like pure gold. like you were putting him back together.

dean’s still trembling under your gaze, under your touch. but seeing him react the way he did stirs at that feeling inside your tummy that always seemed to spike when dean was around. you toss that urge away, along with the tissue you’d used on his face.

but you don’t take your hand away.

your hand was so warm, so soft was all dean could think, feel. you weren’t taking your hand away, so dean just melted like a pad of butter in a pan into your fingers that were cupping the side of his face, his eyes still shut. he could feel the slight burn of them from crying, along with the pressure in his face so high— but your thumb absentmindedly brushing on his cheek was starting to make him feel like he was floating instead.

and because he’s greedy, because he’s weak, dean’s own hand releases its hold from your shirt and finds your wrist, keeping your hand on his face. the one that used to be under his jaw had dropped when you knew that he wasn’t going to look down again.

no one’s shown dean care like this. your presence was like a blanket, like the warm, soft light of a candle. he couldn’t get enough. he never wanted it to end.

dean doesn’t know how long he stays like that— could’ve been seconds or hours. but he finally breaks the silence with a quiet, raspy “thank you”. he doesn’t open his eyes yet.

because he’s afraid that you’ll be gone when he opens them.

but you weren’t.

no, in fact? you did something much stupider.

you leaned forward and kissed dean on the cheek that your hand wasn’t currently holding.

dean’s eyes snap open in surprise at the contact if your soft lips on his skin, his trembling breaths getting stuck in his throat again— because holy hell. whatever he’d been guessing you’d do, it wasn’t even close to that.

like everyone knows now: you weren’t thinking.you just wanted him to feel better. you just didn’t know how to do that for him.

dean’s red-rimmed eyes were still wide as you leaned back, your hand on his face faltering when you see his expression, because that didn’t seem like he enjoyed it— but he didn’t drop his hand from your wrist. he wasn’t going to let you let go. you’d only kissed him on the cheek one other time, and that was when he was dying for the third, maybe fourth time? it was too long ago for him to remember, but honestly, he had been happy just dying like that, too. you’d kissed him, and that was what he needed. he didn’t want anything else from this world.

and you just did it again.

the only thing he said?

“do that again.”

now it was your turn for your breathing to stop working.

but you didn’t hesitate.

you leaned forwards once more and pressed your lips on dean’s cheek again, lingering for a second too long before you reluctantly pulled away. because you wanted more. you wanted everything, honestly. but you’d never ask that of him.

you don’t know how you’ve lasted this long, pretending not to want one of your closest friends for as long as you can remember. you can recall a time when you didn’t feel like this— back when dean winchester was just some hunter with his brother. you helped them out once in a while, since they were your age and seemed nice enough, but somewhere along the way, after an apocalypse or two, sam and dean were always kind of just… there. it was like you were on parallel paths, going in the same direction— and both had intersected at some point.

now here you were.

it was times like these you wished that dean would just pick a side. he never truly hit on you, only for a case once in a while— and he couldn’t even look at you after he did that. he never made a move, and honestly, you were fine with that, for a really long time. you’d deemed dean much too out of your league anyway, since he didn’t really flirt with you like he did every other woman that came across his path— and that was odd to you, because dean flirted with everyone.

just not… you.

and while it stung, you just pushed through it. i mean, it’s not like you haven’t been let down before— but you couldn’t place why your heart felt like it was being shredded up in your chest when you’d met lisa for the first time.

but you knew.

deep down, you knew exactly why.

you knew why your gut twisted whenever he chatted up a waitress, or a witness. you knew why your friends gave up on talking to you about him, because you were a lost cause.

because you were so stupidly in love with dean, it was almost humiliating.

every single person, even some monsters you were literally hunting had called you out on it.

and you didn’t know what the hell to do.

there were too many variables, too many outliers, and certainly not enough confidence to even consider the fact of telling him. of manning up and just taking what you wanted. because what would you even say? do? what happens after he rejects you? and what if—

your thoughts are interrupted by a warm hand on your face.

dean’s hand.

your hand was still on his cheek, one of his own still holding your wrist— but the other was now brushing a strand of hair out of your face.

and then it just… stayed there. on the side of your face.

just like you were doing to him.

you’re gonna die, you think.

once again, you found yourself wanting dean to just do something. he’d been blurring the invisible line you’d drawn for yourself, the one you swore to never cross—

unless dean wanted you to.

it was getting much harder to tell if he wanted you to or not, especially in the most recent months.

and it was killing you. slowly but surely.

“what’re you thinkin’ about?”

the words leave your mouth before you even have time to think, because dean’s hand is so warm, so big against your face and it’s really hard to focus when his own thumb is brushing on your cheek—

“you.”

the answer leaves dean’s mouth without hesitation, without another thought. it wasn’t a lie— because you were all he thought about.

dean didn’t deserve this. you. any of this. and yet, he couldn’t refuse it right now. not when you were so close to him, and your skin was so soft—

“are you—” the words get caught in dean’s throat. “are y’thinkin’ about me?”

oh, why did dean just say that. why on chuck’s green earth did he ever say that. how did he even sound more pathetic than he’d just been when he was crying in your arms? and his voice was so small, so unlike him— plus it was still raspy from his stunt he’d pulled earlier. he was an idiot. a fool. he sounded like an insecure freakin’ teenager. it was pathetic. he was pathetic—

“yeah.”

dean’s eyes flicked back up to yours— and that was a mistake, because your hand was still mirroring his own on his face, and you were looking at him like you meant what you’d just said. like he meant something.

“yeah?” the breath left dean’s mouth before he could stop it, and he hated how hopeful he sounded. he’d moved a fraction closer to you, but it felt like he just traveled a mile.

“yeah,” you nodded, a little dazed, voice barely above a whisper. because dean was so close to you now, you could feel his breath on your face. you could barely think straight, because all you wanted to do was just lean in a little further— “i don’t really, uh… stop. thinkin’ about you.”

and dean’s gonna die.

he is going to die, because you said that and you were looking down at his lips and you smelled so good and your hand was still on his face—

dean was a simple man. that’s all he’ll ever be. he’d never ask you to do something you didn’t want.

but god, he wanted you.

so the words fell out of his mouth in another exhale—

“me, either.”

oh.

the way you were looking at him right now? after he said that in response?

you wanted him, too.

you’re both not sure who moved first, but your lips were on dean’s after you leaned in and he used his hand on your face to tug you to him, closing the remaining space between you both on his bed.

the first thing you noticed?

dean tasted like home.

you didn’t kiss him too fast. neither he with you. because you wanted to map out every inch you could, and because you were half-sure that this was some fantasy your mind had cooked up out of a state of delusion. your hand on dean’s face snaked deeper back, burying into his hair, and he groaned into your mouth at the action.

that did something to you. the same thing happened when dean’s hand went into your hair, too— you made this little noise on his lips.

that did something to him.

kissing dean was actually gentle at first. not hesitant, but like you already knew how. but then after you’d both made those noises, it’s like a switch flipped. suddenly, there was way too much space in between you both— and you gripped onto the front of his shirt, tugging him towards you as you let your back hit his sheets, taking him down with you.

this wasn’t like anything you’d ever felt. no, this was going on a decade of wishing, wanting, hoping for something, anything to come of you and dean besides friendship.

and dean? dean pressed right into you, one of his hands and barely bothered to keep himself upright. he needed to touch you, feel you. another groan escapes you and him involuntarily at the friction between you both— because you’d spread your thighs, his torso fitting right between you.

and it felt good.

you couldn’t take a full breath anymore, but you didn’t dare take your lips off of dean’s. you just tugged him closer, hand still in his hair, the other on the back of one of his shoulders.

both your lips broke with a pop, you and dean taking in the same breath of air, his nose brushing against yours and eyes fluttering, because wow.

dean didn’t know he’d said that aloud until a smile tugged on your lips, eyes looking up at him like he still wasn’t real. like this wasn’t real.

“you know how long i’ve been waitin’ to do that?” dean breathes against your lips, eyes threatening to shut again.

your smile gets wider as your own eyelashes flutter at the closeness, relishing in the contact of feeling dean on top of you before you respond:

“you know how long i’ve been waiting for you to do that?”

──────────────────────── 𖤐

tags: @blossomingorchids @bluemerakis @ambiguous-avery @maddie0101 @titsout4jackles @deansbeer @sunsbaby @emeraldcrs @h8aaz @honeyryewhiskey @supernotnatural2005 @cowboysandcigarettes @soldiersgirl @bruisedfig @mostlymarvelgirl @amaris444 @kaz-2y5-spn @littlesoulshine @starzify @velvetparkerx @eggggggggggggggggggggsblog @fuckedupfate @liiiilsss @angelblqde @vmiina @mahi-wayy @viarasvogue @tinas111 @0ccvltism @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @lunaleah @saintfaux @kimxwinchester @bettystonewell @honeyyxxbee @harlekin705 + if i missed anyone OR if you want to be added/taken off, please let me know! <3

#faith’s works . . . @bejeweledinterludes!#supernatural #dean winchester #spn #dean winchester headcanon #dean winchester x you #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester one shot #touch starved #part 2

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fromdove · 3 days ago

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SMELLS LIKE YOU'VE BEEN COPING ! jason todd x reader

“I am so high right now,”

— jason coming home to you high, mention of being high & weed, gn reader (but written with fem reader in mind) jason smokes weed (this is so real to me)!! stoner todd

∿　　 . `💭` ㆍ

You smelled him before you saw him.

Smoke — bitter, herbal, laced with something earthy and sharp. Weed. The expensive kind he only used when he was actually physically hurting. It clung to him like it had crawled into every thread of his hoodie and kissed his skin on the way out.

The door clicked shut softly behind him, and he stepped inside like he wasn’t two hours later than he said he’d be. like he owned the place. Eyes heavy-lidded. Movements slow, deliberate, like he’d edited the speed of real life down to 75%.

Hood up. Hands in his pockets. Lazy in that way only he could be — like the world didn’t get to tell him how to carry his pain.

“Hey, baby,” he drawled, voice rough and low. “Miss me?”

Your arms crossed automatically. “You're high.”

Jason looked up. His eyes were bloodshot and half-lidded, the corner of his mouth tugged up like he was already amused.

“I’m walking, talking, and not bleeding out. I call that a win.”

You didn’t smile. “You said you weren’t going to.”

“I said I’d try not to. Then my ribs started screaming halfway through patrol, and weed doesn’t come with a side of addiction or a lecture from Alfred.”

You just stare.

He held up both hands. “My ribs hurt like hell. What do you want me to do, take a bubble bath and wish on a star?”

“I want you to stop setting your lungs on fire. I don't want your lungs looking like Gotham’s sewer system”

He raised an eyebrow and walked over, slow and unbothered. Everything about him moved on a delay when he was like this. That smug tilt to his mouth, that slouch in his shoulders — he was feeling himself tonight, high and warm and a little bullet sore.

He dropped down beside you, stretching his long legs out and throwing one arm lazily over the back of the couch.

“You worried about me, angel?”

“You reek like a dispensary. A cheap one.”

“Hey,” he said, mock-offended. “This was premium pain relief. Organic. Grown with love. Hand-rolled by yours truly. I’m basically a sommelier at this point.”

You leaned away slightly, nose wrinkled. "you reek."

He grinned, leaned down until his nose brushed your cheek. “Missed you too, angel.”

You pushed his chest. “Don’t act cute. You didn’t text. I thought something happened.”

Jason’s smile faltered. Not all the way — just enough to show the crack behind the grin. He leaned back and rubbed a hand over his face.

“Yeah,” he said, softer now. “I know. I’m sorry. Should’ve called.”

You looked at him — really looked. His jaw was tight. His hoodie was clean but wrinkled, like he’d put it on after changing out of something soaked in sweat or blood. His eyes had that gloss to them, but not in the way that made you worry. Just… dulled.

“I don’t get high to disappear,” he muttered. “I just… I hurt. It helps. Doesn’t mean I don’t hear your voice in my head about it.”

“Oh yeah?” You moved closer beside him, tucking your legs under you. “What’s my voice say?”

Jason smiled again — slower, this time. Almost real. “Says, ‘Jason Peter Todd, if you ruin your lungs I’m not pushing your wheelchair when you’re forty.’”

You snorted despite yourself. “Damn right.”

He reached over lazily, arm slung across your shoulders.

For a minute, neither of you spoke. His fingers played absently with the hem of your sleeve. His breathing slowed, deepened. He always got a little clingy when he smoked — mellow, touchy, like the armor cracked just enough for the softness underneath to breathe.

“C’mere,” he said, tugging you closer anyway. “Lemme love you while I still can feel my legs.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t resist. You moved even closer. He was warm. Always warm, even when he was being a pain in the ass. You pressed a kiss just beneath his eye.

“Come to bed,” you whispered. “You can hold me till it wears off.”

He sighed against your hair.

“I’d hold you even if it didn’t.”

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p0orbaby · 2 days ago

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magic 8 ball

summary: What starts as Leah crashing your pity pint spirals, predictably, into something far less wholesome and far more hands-on.

warnings: SMUT 18+, just general sex stuff so you know the drill

a/n: i was inspired, not sure by what, but here we are

word count: 2.5k

“I’m not having a breakdown,” you say, peeling the label off your beer with such deep concentration you forget you have to breathe to survive. “I’m having a perfectly rational response to the current state of the world. And also to my boss, who thinks ‘relevance’ is when a TikTok account reposts our gallery’s Instagram.”

Leah makes a sound, something between a laugh and a sigh, and slides onto the stool next to you as if she owns the place. She probably does. Or knows someone who does. She’s wearing a camel coat from The Row that looks like it’s never seen a hanger. Soft, fluid, draped like wealth. Her hair is up—one of those deliberately lazy ponytails that costs £80 at a salon and makes people call you effortless like it’s a compliment. She probably just didn’t bother sorting it after training.

She orders a double gin and tonic. Not with Bombay or Tanqueray or any of the pedestrian options available to people who wear polyester and say OOTD. She points, without looking, at a bottle of something artisanal. Something with botanicals. Something brewed by a man with a beard who lives in Hackney and forages moss recreationally while naked.

“You’re twitching,” she says, when the bartender walks away.

“I’m fine,” you reply, tight. “I’m absolutely fucking fine.”

You’re not. You’re vibrating with the same energy as a microwave that’s just been asked to reheat a bowl of leftover soggy chicken chow mein.

Leah squints. “Your eye does this thing when you’re on the brink of homicide. It’s cute, all things considered.”

You think about stabbing her with the cocktail stick that came with the complimentary olives you got when you ordered. Instead, you finish peeling the label. The bar is now covered in neat, sticky curls of Beck’s branding. You take a vicious sort of pride in it—like this bar owes you something and you’re slowly destroying it molecule by molecule.

“I had to explain post-conceptualism to a man who unironically collects Funko Pops today.”

“God.”

“He said, ‘So it’s like Banksy but sadder?’”

“Oh, sweet Jesus.”

“And then he asked me if Damien Hirst invented fruit winders.”

Leah bites her lip to suppress a grin. You hate that she finds this funny.

“I’m in hell,” you say. “I live here now. It’s beige and the lighting’s fluorescent and all the curators wear Balenciaga in the wrong way.”

“There’s a wrong way to wear Balenciaga?”

“Yes. It’s when you do it with sincerity.”

Leah hums, amused. Her drink arrives. She picks it up like she’s in an advert for skincare. You hate her glass. It’s too clean. You hate how she sips, like the liquid is trying to earn her respect. You hate her in general, really. But it’s a specific, curated hate. The kind that comes with longing. Jealousy. Proximity.

“You’re not angry,” she says, “you’re heartbroken.”

“I am not heartbroken.”

“Fine,” she shrugs. “You’re artistically blue-balled.”

That, unfortunately, lands. You clench your jaw. You spent two months assembling an exhibit that got described as visually competent by someone whose own work consists of melting Barbie heads onto coat hooks. The only person who seemed to get it was a caretaker, and even he asked if it was “about feminism or something.”

Leah’s watching you with the sort of curiosity she usually reserves for rare mushrooms or political scandals. You feel exposed, like she’s mentally peeling your skin back to check for rot.

“I just—” You stop. You sip your beer. You stare at its froth like it insulted your mother. “I just want to make something that doesn’t immediately get filtered through someone else’s idiot-brand algorithm of what art is supposed to do. I don’t want it to do anything. I want it to exist. And I want that to be enough.”

There’s a pause. A proper silence. A respectful one.

Then Leah says, “Well. That’s depressing.”

You blink. “Do you ever have a normal human reaction?”

“I do,” she says, “just not to tantrums disguised as philosophies.”

You groan. Loudly. Obnoxiously. “Why are you here?”

She takes another sip, smacks her lips, says: “You texted me the words ‘I hope my body gets mistaken for a performance piece when I die.’ So I cleared my schedule.”

You rub your face. You did text that. You thought it was funny.

“You’re a masochist,” you mutter.

“You’re dramatic.”

You look up at her, eyes narrowed. “You think you’re better than me.”

Leah leans in, her face maddeningly calm. “Sweetheart. I know I am.”

You want to throw something at her. A pint glass. the chair you’re sitting on. Your entire unresolved emotional history. But instead you say, “Do you ever get tired of always being the most emotionally detached person in the room?”

She tilts her head. “Do you ever get tired of pretending your anger is intellectual when really you’re just sad and lonely and catastrophically underfucked?”

You nearly choke on your drink.

“I am not underfucked.”

“I can see how tense your jaw is from here. It’s clenched like a Victorian child repressing her feelings about having to crawl up another chimney. Go home and look at yourself in the mirror. Tell me that’s the face of someone getting railed regularly.”

You want to die. You also want her to say it again, slowly, in private, with less clothing.

There’s a long, crackling pause. You both know it’s no longer about art.

Leah sets down her glass. She taps the rim once, twice. Rhythm. Precision. Her nails are short, square, coated in clear polish that you don’t normally notice but have now because you can’t look her in the eye. Then you catch yourself staring at her hands for too long and quickly look away.

She doesn’t comment. But you know she notices. Leah notices everything. She notices the hair tie on your wrist has snapped and been retied in a knot, twice. She notices you’ve stopped wearing mascara, which you used to call your “armour” in that stupid, performative way you used to talk about beauty like it was actually important. She notices the crack in your lip that won’t heal because you’ve been biting it every time you think too hard.

She says, eventually, almost to herself:

“Right. That’s enough tragic brooding. Come on.”

You glance at her sideways. “Come on what?”

She lifts her chin, shrugs like it’s obvious. “It’s time for the three F’s.”

You blink. “The what?”

“The three F’s,” she repeats, counting them off on one hand like she’s listing dinner party ingredients. “Food. Fucking. And… I haven’t decided on the third one. It’s usually ‘forgiveness’ but tonight it might change depending on my mood or how close you are to bursting into tears.”

You narrow your eyes. “Are you having a stroke?”

Leah ignores this. She taps her temple. “It’s a system. A trifecta. A deeply spiritual practice.”

“Sounds like a religious cult run by Gordon Ramsay.”

She smirks. “Exactly. Chips first. Sex second. Existential clarity optional.”

You stare at her, arms folded. She’s smiling now, that crooked, smug half-smile that suggests she knows she’s funny, even when you want to shove her face into a vat of chip grease.

“You offering?” you ask, dry. “For the second F?”

Leah shrugs again. “No. I saw a homeless man outside and thought you two might hit it off.”

You snort, despite yourself. “You’re a bitch.”

She sips her drink like she’s just said something unremarkable and bureaucratic, like we’ll be closing early due to maintenance. She doesn’t look at you. You’re glad. You’re not ready for the look she gives you when she’s being sincere. It’s like being x-rayed.

Then she adds, almost as an afterthought, “Of course I’m offering. Don’t be daft.”

You freeze. A beat. Another.

“I thought I was a neurotic, emotionally volatile husk of a woman with a martyr complex and an inflated sense of artistic purpose.”

“You are,” she says. “But you’ve got a decent face and you’re good with your hands. So, you know. Swings and roundabouts.”

You scoff. And you’re trying really hard to stay calm because your doctor has informed you your concerningly high blood pressure is a direct correlation of your erratic emotions.

“What happened to chips first?”

“Oh, I still want chips. I’m starving. I haven’t eaten since three and I’m craving something fried and disgusting. Preferably served by someone with a name badge and an attitude problem.”

You nod slowly. “That’s the most grounded thing you’ve said all night.”

“Thank you. I’m a woman of the people.”

She drains her gin and stands, smooth and sudden, like movement happens to her rather than from her. You watch the line of her coat shift across her hips and hate her a little more. In a nice way. A respectful way.

She glances back at you, already heading toward the door. “You coming, or are you going to sit here frowning into warm beer like the ghost of failed gallery interns past?”

You mutter something under your breath and follow. Of course you do. It’s Leah.

It’s always Leah.

“You’re making that face again.”

Leah’s looking at you from the other end of the bed—half undressed, half mocking, propped up on her elbow like some god-awful, lesbianised version of a Greek statue who knows exactly how fit she is.

You’re topless and regretting all your life choices. “What face?”

“The one that says, ‘this is a terrible idea but I’m already wet so fuck it.’”

She’s not wrong.

You shoot her a glare and yank your bra off in one not so smooth move. It slaps the floor with the exhausted whimper of cotton that’s held too many disappointing breasts over the years.

“God, you’re hot when you’re angry,” she says, and you want to laugh. Or hit her. Or sit on her face. All three feel valid.

“Shut up and lie down.”

She does. Immediately. The smugness fades slightly, replaced by something quieter. More concentrated. She watches you crawl over her like a lion stalking its prey. Or more realistically like you’re some slow-motion car crash she wants to get hit by.

You kiss her. Sloppy. Unapologetic. More tongue than technique. It’s not romantic. It’s hot. It’s urgent. It tastes like gin and old rage.

Somewhere between biting her lip and grinding down against her thigh, you lose track of how long you’ve been pretending not to want this. Leah’s skin is warm and annoyingly soft. Her bra’s still on. She’s still wearing her bra.

You reach for it, fumbling. “Why are these always like a NASA launch?”

She laughs into your neck. “You’ve never undressed another woman before, have you?”

“Only emotionally.”

You finally get the clasp and she shrugs out of it, tits bouncing slightly. You both pretend not to notice how your brain flatlines for a second. You’re supposed to be cool. You’re supposed to be in control.

But her nipples are hard and you’re throbbing and when she reaches between your legs without warning, you gasp—loud and unedited.

“Oh my god,” you breathe. “Warn a girl.”

“You’ve literally been grinding on my thigh for five minutes.”

“That’s different. That’s friendship.”

Leah slips her hand down your knickers. Finds you soaked. She hums like she’s impressed. Or smug. Probably both.

“Jesus, babe,” she says. “You’re soaked.”

You scoff. “Don’t call me babe. You sound like some weirdo on Love Island.”

“Fine. Darling?”

“Worse.”

“You’re tight when you’re annoyed,” she murmurs, and then pushes two fingers in. Just like that.

You moan. Too loudly. Your hips buck automatically.

“Oh, fuck—”

Leah grins like a wolf. She curls her fingers and your whole spine tries to fold in half.

“Yeah, that’s it,” she says, pumping slow, deliberate, unfair. “There. Right there. Don’t move.”

You immediately move. “Fuck, wait—fuck, there.”

She groans, her forehead pressed to yours. “You’re so annoying.”

You kiss her to shut her up and reach down between her legs. Her knickers are drenched too. You laugh.

“What?” she says, breath hitching.

“Nothing. Just didn’t know England’s golden girl got this wet.”

“I’m a footballer,” she pants, “not a cardinal.”

You pull her knickers aside, push two fingers in easily. She’s hot and slick and all kinds of fuckable. Her eyes roll back for a second. She grabs your arm, anchoring herself. Her nails dig in.

“Oh my god. Keep doing that.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Don’t—don’t fucking stop.”

You thrust harder, matching her rhythm, both your hands moving now—sloppy and synchronised. Her hips are rolling. Yours too. There’s swearing. Lots of it. You’re both flushed and swearing and laughing in between grunts.

“Fuck,” she gasps. “Harder.”

You give it to her harder. You give it to her like a promise. Like revenge.

At one point you both reach for each other at the same time and bang foreheads. Loudly.

“Ow,” you groan, blinking.

She’s laughing. “This is the least elegant sex I’ve ever had.”

“Good,” you growl, sucking a bruise into her neck. “I’m not here to be elegant.”

You push her legs wider. You go lower.

“Wait—are you—oh fuck—”

You don’t bother answering. You just get your mouth on her. One long, filthy lick from her entrance to her clit and she arches like she’s being electrocuted.

“Jesus CHRIST,” she chokes. “You’ve done this before.”

You don’t dignify that with a response. You just moan into her cunt and keep going.

Her hand finds your hair and tugs. Not hard. Just enough to make you feel owned.

She’s close. You can feel it. She starts talking like a woman possessed.

“Yes. There. Don’t stop. Don’t stop, don’t you fucking stop—”

You don’t. Of course you don’t. You flatten your tongue and she breaks.

She cums hard, loud, practically shaking, her thighs closing around your head like a vice.

When she collapses, she pulls you up, kisses you like she’ll die if she doesn’t, and flips you over. She doesn’t even hesitate. Her mouth is on you like it’s home. She licks you open, groaning like you’re her favourite meal and she’s been fasting.

“Oh fuck me,” you cry, gripping the headboard like it’s a lifeline.

She hums against your clit. You nearly black out.

“Yeah?” she says, lifting her head. “That good?”

You nod, dazed.

“Use your words.”

“More.”

“More what?”

“More Leah.”

She moans like that’s the final straw and fingers you hard, mouth locked around your clit as if it belongs there. You cum embarrassingly fast. Practically scream. Collapse against the pillow like a dramatic Victorian wife.

There’s a beat. Silence. Both panting.

Then:

“I think I saw god.”

Leah wipes her mouth and shrugs. “Tell her I said hi.”

You both dissolve into hysterical laughter, tangled up and sweaty and slightly horrified.

“So,” you say, catching your breath. “The verdict on the third F?”

She grins. “I think I'll stick with forgiveness. For all the shit we’re about to pretend didn’t just happen.”

You nod. “Fair.”

And then you kiss her again. Because honestly, what else are you going to do?

#leah williamson #leah williamson x reader #awfc #awfc x reader #engwnt #engwnt x reader #woso #woso x reader #woso imagine

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morganbritton132 · 3 days ago

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There’s a missing kid.

No. Not missing.

A misplaced kid. A lost kid. An out-of-sight kid. Or some other hippy nonsense bullshit Pierce brought back from that deescalation workshop in Chicago.

Missing involve imagines of kidnapping and never seeing your kid again. So they’re anything but missing until they are. It’s bullshit, but so is bringing your six year old to the traveling carnival and not keeping a hold of them if you weren’t planning on losing them.

That’s why his Sara is held in her mother’s arms and why Hopper would like this not-missing kid found so he could get back to his daughter.

He’s not even on duty.

Hopper continues his tromp through the overgrown grass on the outskirts of the festival where the carnies half-hazardous dumped unused equipment when - “Mr. Hopper!”

He turns his head to see Steve running up to him and holding out his arm where a green wristband is located, “I’m allowed to be here.”

Steve falls into step next to him and asks, “Can you ride the Ferris Wheel with me? They won’t let me ride it again without a grown up.”

Hopper didn’t answer, looking behind a wooden cutout of a clown with an ice cream cone. Steve didn’t seem to mind, rambling on about how they don’t like if you stand up at the top of the Ferris Wheel until Hopper sees a kid.

“Hey,” He calls, marching towards them. “Your mom is looking for you, k - Munson. Of course.”

Of course it’s Eddie Munson’s big brown eyes looking up at him. Of course it’s Eddie Munson hovering over an anthill with caramel from a candy apple all over his arm.

He’s covered in ants.

“You can’t do that,” a new voice pipes up before Hopper can ask what fresh hell this is. He looks over at a little girl with big overalls and bandaids on her elbows. “Ants can bite you, and sometimes they sting people. Sometimes they sting and bite people so much that they die - the person, not the ant.”

“They’re not biting me,” Eddie says, tilting his head at his ant covered hand. “Maybe they trust me. Maybe I’m one of them and I’ll get ant powers. I’ll become an Ant Man.”

“Ant-Man doesn’t have ant powers,” Steve scoffs. “He just gets really small and really big. Ants can’t get really big. He’s called that cause he can shrink to the size of an ant, but he can get smaller so why does that matter? I guess ‘cause he can talk to ants but that’s dumb.”

“I can talk to ants.”

“They can’t understand you!”

Eddie grins like he’s about to get on Hopper’s goddamn nerves so he cuts in, “Hey, children! There’s a kid missing and all of you need to get back to your parents. Munson, Steve, random gi- who are you?”

The girl points at herself and then says, “Robin Buckley.”

“Rob- Robin Buckley? You’re the missing kid.”

“Oh?” She says. “I’m not missing, I’m right here.”

#Steve’s got beef with Ant Man and his lack of ant powers #somewhere out there Tommy’s spidey senses are telling him that Steve’s talking about fucking ant man again #Hopper takes Robin back to her parents and she tells them that she met a boy that was a big ant #they say that she has a wild imagination #Hopper even goes the extra mile and dumps Eddie’s ass back with Wayne (not even at the carnival but a picnic somewhere else in the park)#Steve disappears as soon as he realizes Hopper’s making the parent rounds #and the next time hopper sees him he’s with the Hagans so that’s good enough for him #steve harrington #eddie munson #robin buckley #jim hopper

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natcat5 · 2 days ago

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The one thing I’m still on the fence about is whether remmick full represents ‘whiteness’ or just the repeating of cycles of violence.

because the thing is, the Irish weren’t always white. They became white over history, and in North America especially, eventually gained the benefits of being part of the in-group. So when remmick is forcing them to assimilate to his culture, I’m not sure as I’d read it as whiteness stealing and assimilating blackness. It feels like an oppressed group that found ‘safety’ and ‘power’ in assimilation then trying to forcibly give another group ‘safety’ and ‘power’. It’s still evil and wrong, but I don’t know that it’s as clear cut as representing white appropriation. I think it’s more how oppressed groups may see safety in assimilation. I’ll point to the fact that remmick hides his Irish accent around the southern white folks. He also switches from calling the native Americans by their actual name - the Choctaw, and switches to more derogatory terms when he sees the klan hoods. He assimilates to protect himself. to be clear, he’s still evil as hell and it’s undeniably wrong what he did to the juke joint. He’s absolutely still a vulture stealing black culture. But I don’t know that it’s as simple as him representing white culture. I think it’s more that he represents the assimilation lie - that you’re safe if you join the culture of your oppressors.

edit: you know what, I think that’s not quite right either. I think it’s both. I think he represents white culture vultures AND a victim/perpetrator of the assimilation lie fed to non-white groups. I don’t think it’s one or the other. It’s both

remmick and the vampires present a false dichotomy

Hogwood (the man who sold the twins the mill) and the KKK are very obviously bad, they are outright malicious bigotry, they use the n-word and plan to lynch the moore's and their community, they are so blatantly racist and hateful it's unavoidably obvious

remmick and the vampires however say that they believe in equality, say that they want to create a community, and yet remmick's goal throught the movie is to both metaphorically and literally steal sammie's ability for his own goal of reconnecting with his irish ancestors, a white man wants to harm a young and upcoming black man and use talents for his own goals without giving any regard to said black man's autonomy or agency

when sammie sings 'I lied to you' in the juke joint and calls forth the spirits from the past and future, it's a blend of cultures; west african, east asian, native american, and african american song and dance blend together across time and space to tell the stories of blues; where it takes its inspiration from, the music genres it then inspired, the complex history of black american culture and its intersections with other peoples of colour in the USA

when remmick and the vampires kill and turn the people in the juke joint, and then perform rocky road to dublin, only remmick's irish culture is on display, there is no influence from the black and asian people he has forcibly assimilated into his song, it's juxtaposition with the earlier scene is blatant, remmick is more than happy to assimilate people of colour into his 'community' of 'equals', and yet its only whiteness that is celebrated, that is normative

remmick claims that he's doing people a favour by turning them immortal, conviently ignoring that he literally has to suck the life out of them to do so, trapping their spirits on earth, he claims that he's the good guy, that the KKK were gonna come and lynch everyone at the joint in the morning anyways, conviently ignoring that he's doing the exact same thing; a white man leading a mob to kill a bunch of black people

in the final confrontation with sammie remmick repeatedly dunks him into the river, a forceful baptism. both the celtic irish and enslaved west africans had their religions suppressed and destroyed by colonialsm, had christianity forced upon them by the british empire, and in that scene we see remmick repeating that cycle, using christianity to inflict harm, and sammie reclaiming christianity, despite all the complex emotions he has arround it, as many colonised peoples have and still do, when he recites the lord's prayer

remmick and the vampires are no less racist than hogwood and the KKK, are no less predatory or evil, they're just less blantant about their bigotry, they represent the system, the normalised white supremacy that is seeped into the very foundation of culture in america, the point isnt that remmick would call any of the black characters in the movie the n-word, i dont think he would, the point is that his exploitation and desacration and inserting-himself-into-when-he-wasn't-invited of the juke joint is a microcosm of what white people have done to black american arts and culture since ever since there have been black and white people in america, and even before that

theres a reason vultures are shown early on in this movie

#Sinners spoilers #sinners 2025

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 2 days ago

Text

Besotted 10

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, virginity loss, age gap, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: your new neighbour brings intrigue and a bit of danger.

Characters: ex-con!Bucky Barnes (silverfox)

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

By the time Bucky finds a place, you’re exhausted. A shell encases you. The world feels far away. The day in the sun feels like it never even happened in the chill desolation of the night.

The motel sign flickers as the buzz of crickets thrums in the air. Bucky walks behind you, like a warden, herding you to the door marked with the same number as the key in his hand. He opens it up and points you inside. He slaps the light switch and the space blooms with a tinge of yellow.

He puts the saddlebags and helmets in the wooden chair against the wall. He’s silent as he tilts his head, his neck cracking as he stretches out the kinks. He sighs as you hug yourself and flutter along the wall. He pulls shut the curtains and turns to face the room again. His eyes scan the fading wallpaper and double bed.

“Long day,” he says.

You nod and reach up to rub your neck, “yeah.”

He marches suddenly across the room and you flinch. You watch him disappear through the door way, another light flipped on. The metallic chink of the shower curtain rings tweaks in your ears. You chew your lip and examine the room. The place looks like it hasn’t been updated since 1997.

The shower whines to life, the pipes rattling behind the wall, and Bucky’s groan wafts through. The spray of water patters onto the porcelain. You pace along the bed, teetering on your heels as you turn to sit. Before you can, his shadow paints wall. You stop and look over your shoulder.

“Come on.” He has his shirt off already. His chest hair sparkles with stray silver strands and his muscles constrict under his flesh. You’re terrified but he’s still hot as hell.

You follow him to the small bathroom. He sits on the closed toilet and unties his boots. You slip off your sandals and wince as he peeks over at you. You catch his errant gaze on your chest as it threatens to slip free of your tankini. The coverup does nothing to help.

You stand straight and peel of the sheer shawl and lay it on the small counter. The damp heat coiling in the air is welcoming as the salty grime of the beach lingers on your skin. You pull of your tankini, angling to hide yourself.

He stands, the floor groaning under his weight, and startles you as he puts his hands on your shoulders.

“Hiding?” He growls.

You shake your head. You shrug him off and face him. You roll down your panties.

“Doll,” his voice thins to a wisp. “You are the most gorgeous thing...can you really blame me for getting a bit wild? Seeing that brat touching you--”

“Let’s not talk about it,” you say. “Please, I’m tired.”

“Hm, you’re right. We got a big day ahead of us. Let’s move on,” he agrees. He steps closer and brings his hand up to frame your face. He forces your chin up. His thumb strokes just beneath your lip. “I missed you, doll.”

He bends before you can register what’s happening. He kisses you, his grip on your tightening, and you let him. After what he did to Colin, to Angelique, and what he threatened to do, you know better. Too little, too late.

He brushes his hand down your arms and draws you closer. He urges you toward the shower and turns so your back is nearly touching the curtain. He parts and purrs, his blue eyes dark, his hair falling forward around his chiseled features.

“Go on,” he reaches around you and taps your butt. You twitch and step back, your calves touching the cold porcelain. “I’m comin’ right after you.”

He releases you and grabs the top of his brief. You spin and push past the curtain. It ripples closed behind you and you heave into the steaming spray. You let it wash over you but it can chase away your fear.

Bucky can be nice but you know now that he can be mean and violent and scary. That you can only have the former if you behave. If you do what he says. That other side that you ignored is what he tried so many times to warn you about. His self-awareness is less than reassuring. He knows what he is but he can’t control it. You don’t think you can either.

You wince as he steps in behind you. You sway slightly. He touches your hair, spreading his hands wide as he drags them over your head and along your neck, tracing the shape of your body from shoulder, to waist to hip.

He steps closer, flush to you as he hooks his arms around you. He fondles your chest as he nuzzles your neck and hums.

“You miss me too?” He growls into your skin.

You gulp, “yes.”

“Mmm, it’s lonely without you. Quiet.”

“Oh?” You utter.

It’s strange. He’s so soft now. So gentle. Only an hour ago, maybe a bit longer, he was something else. An animal.

He rocks his hips and you feel him. He’s hard. Wanting. You cringe now as you think of how badly you wanted that before. Of how stupid you’ve been.

He rolls your nipples between his fingers and kisses your neck. “Tell me again, baby.”

“Tell you...” you murmur.

“What you said before. You said I was perfect,” he snarls. “Perfect for you, right?”

You try not to show your discomfort. You said those things. It isn’t that you didn’t mean them, just not how he heard them. That moment was perfect. And it’s over.

“Yes, Bucky, perfect,” you assure him, almost impressed at how convincing you sound.

He drops his hand down and tickles your pelvis. You shudder and close your eyes as the spray of the shower pings off your chest. He pets along your hip bone and trails further down. A tingle crawls through you. You might be afraid but you’re still human.

He dips his fingertips between your folds and teases your clit. You clasp onto him at the spark it lights in you. You cling to his wrist, arching your back slightly as you gasp. He kneads your chest with his other hand, nibbling at your neck as he growls.

He rubs you until your wet and swollen. You heave as your heartbeat pounds behind your ears. He pushes his fingers down and spreads them around your entrance, opening you to him.

He bends his legs and shifts his hips. You suck in a breath as you feel him prodding. He pushes his chin down on your shoulder as he inches into you. You feel as tight as the first time. You reach to slap the tile as he slowly impales you.

He brings you to your toes as you whine. He stands straight and hooks his arm around you, his fingertips curling over your shoulder. He pulls you back against him as his fingers creep back to swirl around your clit. You squeak as he pumps into you.

“I missed this, baby.” He snarls. “You’re perfect for me too, huh? You feel that?”

You whimper and nod as you grab onto his bicep. He jolts you with each thrust as his pace grows sharper and faster. Your nerves flicker beneath his touch. You can’t resist it.

You spasm as you cum. He grunts and speeds up. His flesh claps wetly against your ass as lean back into him. He rams as deep as he can and stops.

“Uh uh,” he tuts. “I’m taking my time,” he rasps and rocks slowly. “Doll, I’m gonna make sure you feel how much I missed you.”

👙

“Doll,” Bucky’s voice startles you awake. He’s standing at the foot of the bed. There’s a shopping bag in his hand. You look at the hue trickling in between the tacky curtains. “What time is it?”

You sit up and catch the blanket before you’re exposed. Your muscles ache from the night before. It didn’t stop after the shower. You’re surprised the squeaky old bed held up.

“About noon,” he says coolly. “We got time.”

“Time? For what?” You ask as you rub your eyes.

You’re still spinning. The beach, Colin, Bucky, Angelique... all of it is too much.

“You’ll see, baby. All you gotta do is be you.” He walks up the side of the bed. “Get yourself dolled up.” He puts the bag on your lap. “Not that you need much.”

He bends and kisses your forehead. You stare at the bag then look up at him. Huh? Shouldn’t he be anxious to get home? You must still be hours out.

“For what?” You wonder.

“For me,” he insists as he stands straight and crosses his arms. “It’s a surprise. No more questions.”

You look at him, careful not to frown. You grab the bag and let the blanket fall. There’s really no point in hiding anymore. No point in trying to get out of this. He won’t let you.

“Bathroom’s all yours. I’ll figure myself out here,” he goes to the saddlebags and flips the flap up. “Ride got my hair all mussed again.”

You hesitate and get up. You scurry into the bathroom and shut yourself in. The sliver of privacy will give you some time to get your head straight. Or as close to as you can.

Your bag is in there already. You set down the shopping bag and search in the fabric one. Your phone’s not there.

You shrug and reach into the shopping bag. You take out the dress inside. Huh? White’s never really been your colour. Too delicate. It’s cute; long bell sleeves and a short skirt. A low back with a thin tie across the shoulders. It would kill in black.

That’s not all that’s in the bag. A white lace thong in the exact same shade and some cute heels with silver bows. Hmmmm. It’s... a bit much. Your red bra won’t go either. Not with the dress so scant in the back.

You lay it all aside. You’re thinking this is some sort of date? If he’s really serious, you expect he’ll be trying to be normal. As normal as this can be.

You dig out your pouch of makeup. You didn’t bring much and never wear too much anyhow. Moisturizer, blush balm, some shimmer, very simple and dewy. A touch of mascara and gloss, a spritz of setting spray. A bit much for a lunch date, isn’t it?

You face down the all white attire. You’ve never been a fan of going without your bra but there’s not much choice. You didn’t pack anything but swimsuits and shorts. You get yourself into the thong and dress. Oof, right up your crack.

You pack everything away and hook the bag over your elbow. You pick up the shoes and carry them out. Bucky’s back greets you as he stands in front of the wall mirror and growls.

“Think I about got it,” his shoulders strain beneath the black fabric. “Alright.”

He turns as he straightens his tie. Oh. He looks out of place in the button-up and slacks.

“Wow, doll,” he blinks. “You look amazing.”

You look down and tilt your head, “thanks. You got the right size.”

“It fits perfect,” he praises.

“Right, uh,” you set your bag by the door. “But won’t we get dirty on the bike?”

He chuckles. “I took care of that.”

“Ah, okay. Good,” you put the shoes down too. “You look nice too.”

“You think?” he smooths his hair and checks the mirror again. “I thought about a cut. Shoulda done it before I got out of the pen but then you wouldn’t have anything to grab onto.”

He chuckles and winks in your direction. You sit in the wooden chair and bend to put on the shoes. You make a crackly noise which could be mistaken as a laugh. This is strange. Something’s going on but you know he won’t tell you.

He faces you entirely. You look up. He puts his hands on his hips and grins.

“Sorry, I can’t stop looking. You just. Everything is so... perfect. Isn’t it?”

You sit up and make yourself nod. “Yes, Bucky.”

“You’re glad I came to get you?”

You barely keep from reacting. You smile. “Of course, Bucky. I... I’m sorry I left.”

“I know you are,” he says. “After last night... I know you told me the truth. I know you want me like I want you.” He crosses the room and stops in front of you. He cradles your head between his hands and strokes your cheek. You struggle not to quiver. “I know that after today, life’s gonna be exactly how it should be.”

#bucky barnes #dark bucky barnes #dark!bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #series #besotted #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #au #marvel #mcu #winter soldier #avengers #captain america

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thevibraniumveterans · 3 days ago

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I have THOUGHTS about… ahem… the “Thunderbolts*”…

SPOILER ALERT!!!

SPOILERS UNDER THE CUT…

LAST WARNING!

I’ve just watched the film this evening and I have so many thoughts off the top of my head and in no particular order

Valentina, you SCHEMING little shit, I KNEW something was up! That was insane.

Movie was big on mental health, for sure.

I previously thought we’d see Bucky going up against himself, but I was wrong; why would he ever need to do that? The MCU was his process and we’ve been watching him absolutely go through it.

And speaking of going through it, Bob and his room reminded me of Moon Knight, what with the abusive parents and whatnot, him being in the safest room he can be in, surrounded by toys.

And speaking of rooms. Yelena’s scenes around the Red Room situations, oof, that must’ve been really hard on her, that she could not change anything, that it would keep happening.

The whole you-don’t-have-to-do-this-alone aspect of the film was so well made, and that one scene near the end, the group hug, heartwarming. Very emotional scene. Loved it.

Very nearly upstaged by the previous scenes where Bucky, Walker, Ava, Yelena, and Alexei stopped that stone slab from hitting the ground, saving civilians

Alexei was hilarious throughout the whole movie, awesome at that

HOLY SHIT THE NEW AVENGERS??? I’ll get back to that in a bit but OMG.

The thing about Bob punching his own dark reflection and almost becoming what he feared the most was just… so so well done, that even when he was being mocked, he found the strength to get up and fight back, inspiring the others to get up and fight back too, and fight back together

Taskmaster? Yeah, we knew she was toast within the first 20 minutes but not how, now we know that Val had sent Taskmaster to kill Walker to kill Yelena to kill Ghost

That was one hell of an introduction though

And speaking of introductions, I gotta say something about the post-credits scene. First off, those new outfits are really cool; Walker getting a beret?? BUCKY GETTING A NEW OUTFIT AND A STAR OVER HIS RIGHT ARM?? I love that it’s navy blue now. AND THE FANTASTIC FOUR SHIP?? We know F4 is right around the corner this summer; I’m guessing that in the mid- and/or post-credits scene(s) of that movie we’ll have the F4 interact with the New Avengers before DOOMSDAY

And speaking of the New Avengers! That was Val’s whole setup! She had to get all shady and morally grey and villainy-like, trying to get her potential Avengers members to kill each other in some kind of wretched test to see how’d they fare against each other.

And oh right, BUCKY SAID SAM ISN’T HAPPY about the New Avengers; remember in CABNW Sam said that Ross told him to form a new team? What kind of beef is Val having with whoever is the president now? I mean it’s not like Bucky put together a team, it was just convenient that four of them were in the same car. But think about it, in the Doomsday lineup video, Anthony Mackie was third and Sebastian fourth, so the fact that they’re really high up on the roster and right next to each other tells me that Sam may be mad an Avengers team has been formed and there was nothing he could do about it

And like, it’s 2027 in the MCU now, right? The movie ends like 14 months later so now it’s freakin’ 2028 in the MCU now.

Bob is a cool person, I think, Sentry was the midpoint between Bob and the Void, and Bob doesn’t want to become the Sentry due to how he’d also become the Void - this avoidance is kinda like how Banner didn’t want to become Hulk but then reconciled. I like Bob’s dynamic with Yelena.

The whole metaphor of walking into the void is like choosing to confront your shame, your darkness, the things you think you don’t deserve sympathy for, but then again the whole point of Yelena, Bucky, Walker, and Ava coming together to group hug Bob was just so good.

It’s hilarious that Val didn’t just go “I’m putting together a team”, she went “Imma send these misfits to kill each other, send my latest project to kill them, ALL IN THE GUISE OF HOPING THEY ALL TEAM THE EFF UP but I can’t tell anyone that until the events I put into motion cause them to save the city and become the heroes I always knew they were” and honestly? What the hell, Valentina?! 🤣 You played them, you played us, well effing done, loved it, 15/10 no notes.

Bucky with the good hair! 🤩

Oh and the mid-credits artwork referencing famous historical promo, the Yelena “We can do it” poster referencing the WWII Rosie the Riveter propaganda, the team shot referencing the “Raising the Flag on Iwo Jima” photo

And part of the artwork also being in-universe headlines of people not exactly loving the New Avengers

And the classic Avengers theme song as the undercurrent for the main theme of this movie!

I may have other points but I’ll save them for later, I think??

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kxsagi · 2 days ago

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Hi I love ur writing sm 🫶🫶 So I see a lot of girldad!kaiser fics on this site but I can't help but imagine a twindad!kaiser where its a twin boy and a girl like wouldn't that be so cute? I don't think Ive read anything like that before so I hope u could write something about it but w/o pressure ofcourse, thank u! 🤍

“𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐩𝐨𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐲𝐩𝐬𝐞”

a/n: i could write domestic fluff all day

(art credits go to ateli_er_)

“papa, she stole my dinosaur!!”

“i didn’t! he gave it to me!”

“liar!”

“snitch!”

michael kaiser stands in the middle of the chaos, one sock on, toothbrush still in his mouth, hair flopping over his eyes as he watches his five-year-old twins reenact jurassic park with live-action screaming. the tiny plastic t-rex, likely the source of the drama, flies across the living room and smacks him square in the shin.

he blinks. slowly.

“... cool,” he mumbles around his toothbrush.

a smaller human, his daughter, clings to his leg dramatically, bottom lip wobbly. “dino thief!” she accuses her brother.

the boy, who somehow inherited kaiser’s dramatic flair and your death glare, crosses his arms. “you said you hated dinos yesterday!”

“that was yesterday!” she squeaks.

kaiser sighs, finally pulling the toothbrush from his mouth and wiping foam off his chin with the back of his hand like a true man on the edge.

“okay. okay,” he says, crouching down to their level, both of them now pouting at him. “let’s settle this like civilized people. rock, paper, scissors.”

“what’s that gonna do?!” the girl huffs.

kaiser shrugs. “nothing. but it gives me five seconds of peace.”

you walk in just in time to see all three of them dramatically throwing rock at the same time and arguing about what that means.

“how’s daddy daycare?” you ask, sipping your coffee with amused detachment.

“hell,” kaiser replies brightly.

“language,” you and your daughter say at the same time, which earns you matching side-eyes from him and your son.

he finally herds them into the kitchen, both now seated with bowls of cereal that may or may not be 70% marshmallows. as he’s pouring milk, while one twin insists it must be warm and the other shrieks in protest because it must be cold, you lean against the counter, watching the chaos unfold.

“you know,” you say thoughtfully, “you were scared to even hold one of them when they were born.”

kaiser glares at you over his shoulder. “yeah, because they were small and breakable and didn’t scream in full sentences.”

the girl accidentally spills milk on the boy’s lap. he lets out a bloodcurdling scream and points at her like she committed treason. “she did it on purpose!”

kaiser grabs a towel and tosses it at him. “and now you know why papa drinks coffee like water.”

“... i thought you said wine,” you murmur.

“same thing.”

despite the noise, the milk, the fact that your daughter is being a messy eater and your son is threatening to move out at the age of five, there’s a softness in kaiser’s gaze when he looks at them.

they’re loud. opinionated. tiny versions of both of you with your charm and his sass. his daughter wraps him around her little finger without even trying, and his son follows him everywhere like a miniature shadow, copying his hairstyle and demanding to train with him “so i can beat uncle yoichi.”

“you still love them, though,” you tease, watching him watching them.

“love is a strong word,” he replies dramatically, walking behind you and wrapping his arms around your waist. “but yeah.”

he presses a kiss to your cheek, voice softer now. “they drive me insane, but… they’re ours. and kinda cute. when they’re not trying to murder each other over extinct lizards.”

you laugh, leaning into him. “they love you so much, you know.”

as if on cue, the twins race toward him, your son crashing into one leg, your daughter clinging to the other, both of them giggling and yelling “papa, papa, we wanna go to the park!”

kaiser pretends to wobble, dramatically flailing like they’ve taken down a giant. “ahh! i’m under attack!”

“surrender!” your son yells, climbing up his back.

“give us candy and ice cream or suffer!” your daughter joins in.

kaiser laughs, scooping both of them up with ease, one in each arm. “you guys are insane.”

“we got it from you,” they chirp together.

he meets your eyes over their heads, and for a moment, you both smile – tired, amused, a little overwhelmed – but deeply, hopelessly in love with the little chaos crew you’ve created.

“you’re gonna miss this when they’re older,” you whisper.

he snorts. “i’ll be in a spa in bali when they’re older.”

“kaiser.”

“… fine. we’ll all be in a spa in bali.”

“with dinosaurs!” the twins cheer.

he sighs.

“sure, with dinosaurs.”

#blue lock #blue lock x reader #bllk #bllk x reader #kaiser michael #michael kaiser #kaiser michael x reader #michael kaiser x reader #twinpocalypse

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thewritingfairy · 15 hours ago

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↪ au: Poetic justice

Alternative ending to 04.1 Jason's crime I'll be honest I kept this one short mainly because this is a little bit darker then I usually write and idk if I should use a mature tag, because my original plan for this side story is a lot darker (I turned it down a lot). It might become a multiple part side story, depends if you guys like it. trigger warnings: medical + physical + emotional neglect, guilt, character death (semi-graphic suicide), gn reader (just pretend Reader is out in this au) main m.list series m.list

‘I’m sorry mama.

It hurts, so much. I can’t take it anymore. It’s all too much, I can’t go on like this, but I know you didn’t me to turn out this way. But I can’t go back. This is the end, and all I do is listen to them.

I am scared of what will happen if I don’t, I’m so terrified mama. I can’t go on like this, but if I do this, isn’t it the easy way out? Especially for them? Wouldn’t I just be giving them what they want? A life without me? Oh, mama, how I wish you were here to guide me, to teach me, to talk me through this. To tell me what I can do.

At least I did what you taught me, I documented everything from the moment I could grab my phone. I took pictures of the injuries he gave me, I did as you taught me, but having these like a card up my sleeve isn’t enough. I want to die, but not just kill myself and leave a note. No, I want to explode this all in Bruce’s face. I want him to feel the hurt I feel.

I want him to burn here on earth and on hell.

That is the justice I want, it’s the justice I need. So I made a plan, you’ll be mad when we meet again. I know it, but you’ll understand. Won’t you, mama? I tried for so long, and this was just the straw that broke the camel’s back.

Once I am done I hope the find this diary. I hope that they know that I am dead because of them all.’

You sigh, you hadn’t written in your diary for a while, not since the attack. But today your ‘family’ isn’t here.

Today you are doing what you should have done the day your mama died. But you aren’t leaving before pulling the manor down with you, you had created a social media account that quickly garnered followers. Mainly from school, they all wanted to know more about you. They want to know why you aren’t attending classes, and they’ll learn.

It will shatter their hope to know that the Wayne family isn’t as squeaky clean as everyone thinks they are.

You will shatter Gotham’s perspective the moment your timed camera and social media posts hit the decks. You just need to move fast, you had already gotten everything ready, Jason’s clothes are sturdy and make for a good make-shift rope, and won’t it be poetic? Beaten to the point that scars have already began to form, and now you’ll die at the hands of his clothes wrapped around your neck.

Just like his hands were that day.

But this time it won’t be in your room, no, even if your room was now a creepy replica of your original one, you won’t defile it. You’ll do it right here in the living room, the room your family met up in the most and the room you avoided the most.

Your hands shaking as you stand up on the stool, there is no time to turn back.

You close your eyes and as you feel life slip away from you, and when you feel it get closer? You smile.

The Bat Family knows death like it’s their closest friend, Jason specifically, having been in heaven after all. But when he arrives at the manor, waiting for a debrief, he realises he’ll never go there again.

Because here he stands frozen, in front of the sibling he had harmed, they were just hanging there. Oh god, what has he done? Tears roll down his eyes as he walks towards them. Completely unaware of his surroundings, not even noticing that a camera is rolling, that sirens are slowly surrounding the manor. He should consider himself luckily that he had already changed in sweatpants, no sign of his Red Hood gear. Otherwise he had to explain more than just their wounds.

The closer he got to them, the more his surroundings seem to disappear. The more he doesn’t notice, the others had rushed in the room after hearing the sirens and getting an alert from Barbara that (Name) leaked the situation on the internet, with proof. Bruce had lied to her, he said it was just a small situation. Shouting over the comms to demand the truth, is it all true? Did they truly do this her? But it doesn’t matter, Jason did this. He pushed them to their death.

“Oh God,” he chokes out, as he finally reaches his arms out to touch your body. As he finally takes in your expression. You’re smiling, as if you are glad. As if you are finally safe. He did this. He did this to you. “I’m sorry, what have I done….”

He falls to his knees, his head touching the ground as his sobs echo in the room. But his pity party didn’t last for long, no. Before he could reach for your body and beg for forgiveness Tim pushes him away from your body, angry tears streaming down his face. “You don’t get to touch them.” His voice was shaking, his body rigid and tense. He was on the defensive. Tim seems deluded as he shouts, pointing at them all; “None of you get to touch them!”

Tears streaming down his face as he screams once more; “What have we done?!” (Oh, would this have been him if Bruce hadn’t saved him?) His thoughts torture him and all he could do was pull on his hair, almost tearing it out as he swears he can see your body move. Your smile turning sour the longer he looks at your face. As if you’re telling him; ‘Oh, Tim, couldn’t you do this for me when I was alive? Couldn't you have defended me before?’

Then Tim’s eyes widen, what if you can still be saved, what if he can still turn your faith around?

If you were saved, would his complicity be forgiven?

He works quick, taking your body down as he tries to save you. But your body is already getting cold, it’s too late, but he doesn’t care. He needs you to open your eyes, he needs to ask for forgiveness, he needs to turn your faith around.

You needed someone in your corner, he shouldn’t have been complicate, he should have saved you. That's what Red Robin's for, to protect those that couldn't protect themselves. And he had left you behind, the person that saved him, the person that could relate to him the most. And he never let you in.

He didn’t even notice he was hyperventilating until Bruce pulled him away from your body as paramedics rush into the room. Bruce holds Tim in a bruising hug, almost as if he's terrified Tim would die too. His eyes shot up to where his other siblings were, their eyes terrified. Their eyes looking at your body as if it was all a dream.

Then it all became real.

You are pronounced dead.

And a dread settles upon them all.

They, who are Gotham’s protectors, killed a civilian.

They were the cause of a death of someone they vowed to protect. All because of their own ignorance.

as I said before if you guys like this I'll make it in a bigger side story, but it would get a new taglist and it's own masterlist. For this chapter I'll use the taglist for Nobody's child.

taglist (Nobody's child): @prettiest-thing-in-the-morgue, @bunniotomia, @devotedlyshamelessdetective, @princessbonnie-bell, @seemee3, @pix-stuff, @venomsvl, @amber-content, @stove-top96, @frank-vanderboom, @leeiasure, @1abi, @shadowytravelerlover, @chericia, @lithiumval, @lingxio, @cssammyyarts, @marsmabe, @foolishseven, @kore-of-the-underworld, @bunbunboysworld, @homeless-clown, @miashico, @alwaysholymilkshake, @1cxndy, @kittzu, @rtyuy1346, @exactlynumberonekryptonite, @hopingtoclearmedschool, @artistwithcreativeburnout, @alishii, @vanessa-boo, @holylonelyponyeatingmacaroni, @91-kya, @ryuushou, @jjsmeowthie, @justthere1956, @depressed--therapist, @xzmickeyzx, @cheappremingerfromdelululand, @plsfckmedxddy, @itsberrydreemurstuff, @trashlaternfish360, @leogf, @dirtydiavolo, @lilyalone, @welpthisisboring, @kenman00001, @nxdxsworld, @icefox8155, @ironsaladwitch, @holderoflostmemories, @asillysimp, @wisefuncherryblossom, @eyeless-kun, @marina27826, @muggleloveralways, @ironsaladwitch, @shyenemyperson, @iamaunknownsecret

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