#rip wayne static

[sp00ky-p00ky]

🖤 Brand new STATIC-X! 🖤

I need Project Regeneration Vol. 2 🥰 please and thank you

[zivazivc]

What do the band mates look like now?

Hed's a dad, and Les finally found a shirt that fits him

[og-bad-dogg]

Just Realized That Wayne Static Died In 2014

[sceletaflores]

GOT YOUR HEART IN A HEADLOCK…

꩜ masterlists ꩜ update blog ꩜ requests ꩜ taglist ꩜

ೃ⁀➷ pair: bruce wayne x vigilante!fem!reader

ೃ⁀➷ wc: 3.6k

ೃ⁀➷ contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, nat can’t stop making oc reader characters, somewhat angsty cause i need it to function, bruce's pov, p in v, not rough sex and not love making but another third thing, unprotected sex (do as sex ed teaches, not as i write), slight pain kink, biting, finger sucking RAAAHHH, one tiny mention of blood, bruce wayne experiences feelings, ending is basically the “fucked in missionary and got emotional about it” meme, porn with a little too much plot, no use of y/n.

ೃ⁀➷ nat’s note: oh em gee...baby's first dc fic...i'm so terrified to post this LMAO but i need to because this man just makes me want to write all the sad, angsty, pining/longing filled fics in the world. it’s his beautiful tortured eyes, they’ve transfixed me. title is ofc from imogen heap's 'headlock' cause i'm clearly too obsessed with that album i've named like three fics after it's tracks AND it's just such a bruce song i had to. hope you love it, kisses!

dividers by lovely @saradika-graphics!

bruce wayne gets an unexpected visitor…

Rain pelts at the spotless windows of Bruce's office. Sharp and impossible to ignore in the deep silence shrouding the room.

The overhead lights are dimmed, leaving the only glow in the room the flickering monitors lining the top of his desk. Bruce is hunched over them, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, collar undone, tired eyes fleeting over grainy security footage and recent police reports.

A tension lives in his shoulders as his hands fly over the expanse of his keyboard. The kind that never leaves. He’s chasing patterns again—strings of mob movement, scattered drug shipments, whispers of reemerging cartels. 

It’s not often that he brings his, nightly work, to the tower—but something about the cave felt too heavy. Too suffocating, too soaked in grief and memory for him to get any real work done. Wayne tower, with its sleek sterility, gives him just enough distance to pretend silence is solacing instead of crushing.

Bruce needed that silence. Or maybe he needed the illusion of it—the unostentatious stillness of glass and steel, high enough above the rot of Gotham’s underbelly to try and escape the weight in his chest.

He exhales through his nose, slow and quiet, forearms tensing as he rewinds the surveillance footage for a third time. The storm is growing merciless—thunder cracking like bones, lightning throwing brief, jagged shadows across the gleaming floor. Bruce doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. He just leans further into the static buzz of his monitor, the comfort of control.

Until he feels it.

That shift. 

That slow coil in his gut. The cold drag of something other licking at the edge of the air. A chill snakes its way up his spine and stirs the hair on the back of his neck, pressing against his senses in a way he’s become all too familiar with.

He cuts his eyes to the wall of windows before his desk. At first, he sees nothing but a dark sky. The rain clouds so thick and imposing they mute the shine of the stars, leaving behind a sea of pitch black.

A bolt of lighting rips across the sky—and for half a heartbeat, you’re there.

Seventy eight stories up, floating just outside the glass, shimmering with an ethereal glow. Your form is only half-phased, half solid. Raindrops slip right through you, never landing, never soaking. You press a hand to the glass, head tilted slightly as though amused. 

Bruce doesn’t speak, but his eyes never leave yours.

You don’t knock. You never do.

You phase through the glass like it’s water, it doesn’t creak. It hums—a low rumble of energy. When your boots touch the polished floor, your form sharpens into full opacity, but the essence still clings to your skin. He can smell the ozone.

You don’t speak, not at first. You just stand there, dripping with power instead of rain, head tilting the other way now as you study him like you always do—like you’re looking straight through the flesh and bone, into whatever broken thing is holding it all together.

Bruce forces down the unease curling in the pit of his stomach, he turns his eyes back to the monitors. “You’re late.” His voice is low, sandpaper dry from disuse.

You hum, gliding a few slow steps toward his desk. He can feel the shift in the room—colder, tighter, like the air itself is shrinking away from your presence. 

“I didn’t know we had a date.”

“We didn’t.”

“Then I’m on time.”

Files appear out of thin air, materializing right in front of his eyes. They simply hover for a moment, bathed in a flickering white hue and edged in smoke—until they fall onto his desk with a muted thump. The pages glide their way in front of him with delicate flutter—chilled only by the cold that clings to them from your plane. 

“Where did you get these?” he mutters, scanning the top page. Intelligence. Photos. Notes scrawled in your familiar handwriting. It’s a roster—names he recognizes, faces he’s seen before in police reports and coroner files. All connected to the Falcone remnants. 

“You’re welcome” you say dryly, turning to lean against the edge of his desk. You cross one leg over the other, arms folding over your chest. “Or do I only get a ‘thank you’ if I come gift-wrapped in latex and a chipper attitude?”

Bruce bites back a scoff, brows drawing together the more he reads over the pages. He knows this isn’t a friendly transaction, that it’s the furthest thing from you simply helping him from the kindness of your still heart. You come bearing gifts because you need something.

Bruce doesn’t rise from his chair. He just leans back slowly, eyes dragging up to meet yours. “What do you want, Spectress.”

Your head tilts, he can’t help but let his eyes run along the smooth column of your throat. “You.”

A beat. Bruce’s jaw ticks.

Then you add, “Well not you, you. Not yet.” Your lips curl around the words like they’re a dare. “Your eyes on something for me. There’s been a shift in the Veil, someone’s poking holes again. Thought some of your fancy tech might catch the bleed.”

Bruce stares, hard. He hopes you can still feel the weight of it—like the point of a blade pressed to skin. It’s his default, the way he carves answers out of people who fear the Bat. But you’re not some masked rookie wannabe he can intimidate into compliance with a look. If anything, the pressure only makes your smirk deepen.

“A shift in the Veil,” he repeats, voice low and quiet. Not mocking. Not doubting. Just…curious.

You nod, leaning a little closer, your body an elegant portrait of muscle and menace draped across his desk. “Someone’s not just brushing against it, Bruce. They’re trying to punch through. It’s not subtle.” You inhale a breath you don’t need. “The air is wrong. I can’t reach them. Dead things don’t stay quiet.”

He exhales sharply through his nose, almost a scoff, though there’s no humor in it. “And you think I can track the metaphysical footprint of a ghost hacker.”

Your smile blooms, sharp and lovely like a blade catching the moonlight. “I wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t a priority. The last thing I want to admit is that I need your help. But it’s like something’s…tugging. Someone reaching across, but they’re messy. Clumsy. They don’t know what they’re doing, just that they have the power to do it.” 

Bruce’s fingers twitch over the papers, they crinkle softly under his palm. The only sign that your words have sunk teeth into him. This isn’t some abstract ghost story you’re using to toy with him. This is intel. This is you saying something’s coming.

And The Batman doesn't deal well with what he can’t predict.

“Black Mask?”

“I think Black Mask wouldn’t have it in him to stay quiet if it was.”

Your voice is softer now, the flirtatious edge dulled to something more dangerous. The lights of the monitors cast a faint, blue halo over your face, catching in the slight glow that never leaves your eyes. Bruce notices the way your hand flexes on the desk, your nails dragging faint lines into the polished surface, like you’re grounding yourself—fighting the urge to phase away.

He sits forward slowly, reading the movement for what it is. “You’re scared.”

That makes your smile twitch. Not gone—never gone—but something in your face flickers. Like a candle too close to the wind.

“I don’t scare when it comes to the dead, Bruce.” A pause. “I’m what they whisper too.”

Bruce says nothing. His throat works around a swallow. Your presence has always rattled him. Not because you’re terrifying. He’s faced terrifying. It’s because you see him. 

You see the pulses of emotion he tries his hardest to keep buried, all haloed around him in a hazy smoke of aura and vulnerability. You don’t only test the limits of his control, you blow right through them with all the ease in the world. 

It grates on every inch of his nerves.

And still—still—he can’t help the way his eyes drop. The subtle arc of your hip against his desk. The glow of your power against the dark fabric of your suit. You shouldn’t look this soft, not with the weight you carry. Not with the death you wear like a second skin.

But you do. And it kills him.

Bruce swallows hard, dragging his gaze back to your face. You’re watching him with something like amusement, like you know exactly where his thoughts just wandered.

“You came all this way just for a file drop and a metaphysical theory?”

You don’t answer, letting the silence swell between you until it starts to choke. The room hums with it—something unspoken and aching. That same tension that’s always been there between the two of you, taut as wire. Neither of you ever acknowledge it directly. You dance around it like a live current, but tonight—tonight it feels closer to snapping.

You finally speak. “I saw the Gazette.” You look out to the skyline, eyes shining. “Wayne tower, only the second best view in Gotham, doesn't that just drive you crazy?”

Bruce doesn't take his gaze off you. “Not particularly.”

“What’s the first?”

“I’ll let you know when I find it.”

The unexplainable feeling between you both is pulsing now, alive and unbearable in a way that makes Bruce’s chest tighten. He leans back in his chair, watching you, not sure if he’s challenging you or waiting for you to make the next move. Your gaze flickers between his eyes, his lips, his posture—always studying, always probing.

“Are we done here?”

You hum absentmindedly, pushing off the desk in a fluid motion. The air shifts again as you move. The room feels too small all of a sudden. The rain outside intensifies, and with it, the tension in the air thickens. Bruce can almost taste it—something sharp, eclectic, but also heavy and unwilling to settle.

You walk closer, slow, like you're testing how close you can get before he tenses.

He doesn’t.

That’s the game you always play.

Your tone is velvet stretched over teeth. “I’ve seen inside you, Bruce,” you whisper, the sound pressing against his ribs. “The regret, the rage. The rot. The want. You keep it locked down in suits and silence, but I see it. And it calls to me.”

You circle the desk slowly, not bothering to hide the way your fingers trail across the back of his chair as you pass. Shadows twist and turn around your boots, clinging to the shape of you like they miss you when you're gone. The storm throws another bolt of light against the glass, and your shadow cuts across the floor, long and spindled. Almost wrong.

Bruce doesn’t move, doesn’t even shiver when your fingers drift to his collar and toy with the loose button near his throat. Your touch is cool, just wrong enough to raise goosebumps in its wake. A phantom’s touch.

“You always want what you can’t have, Bruce.”

Your words hit like a jolt of electricity, sharp and raw, and before he can stop himself, he’s standing. The chair scraping against the floor feels like a bomb going off in the silence. But it’s not the anger that drives him. Not entirely.

No, it’s the undeniable attraction. The way your presence disrupts everything he’s spent decades building. The way your very being forces him to question everything he knew about control, power, desire.

“You should leave.” It’s not a command. It’s not a suggestion. It’s…a warning, maybe. He couldn’t tell if you’d heed it. You both know you never do.

“I won’t ask twice,” you whisper, spectral power curling from your skin in soft tendrils that graze his chest. “Help me find who’s bleeding into the Veil , and I’ll make it worth your while.”

Bruce doesn’t need to ask what you mean.

Your hand flattens against his chest, his heartbeat loud and strong beneath your palm. The only warmth in the room.

His hand shoots up fast—too fast—and grabs your wrist. Not rough, but not soft either. Just enough force to anchor, to test the reality of you. His grip burns against your chill.

“I don’t need incentive.”

Your smile curls dangerously, and you phase. Right through his grasp. His fingers snap closed around air, and you’re behind him now, voice purring against the back of his neck. “Liar.”

Bruce rounds his desk with an almost inhuman amount of speed, caging you against the windows. You let him. 

“This isn’t a game, Spectress,” he snarls, eyes burning. His face is close to yours now, too close. Your noses nearly brush. He should pull back. 

“So serious, Bruce,” you murmur, eyes flicking to his lips, then back to his eyes. “Always so fucking serious. All that control, all that rage, and you’ve never even let it out the fun way.”

A muscle jumps in his jaw. “You think that this is fun for me?” he asks, voice like gravel.

“I think you don’t even know how badly you need to come undone.”

Your words hang there. Heavy. Weighted. Inescapable.

And then your mouth is right there—sinful lips brushing against his ear. “Let me show you.”

It’s laughably desperate when your mouths finally meet. Fire and ice coming together in a blaze of teeth and tension and unsaid things. A war between two people who don’t know how to surrender without blood. Neither of you gentle. Neither of you soft. His hands grip your hips roughly, your back hits the glass with more force he’d use on any other woman. 

You bite his lip as he lifts you off the floor like you weigh nothing—like the world could end beneath his feet and he wouldn’t notice as long as your lips stay on his. Your legs wrap around his waist, strong as they drag him further into you.

You meet him with all the power in your bones, your body flickering with that unearthly light as your hands fist the collar of his shirt and pull him impossibly closer. You taste like the dead. Like smoke. Like something Bruce shouldn’t want, and can’t stop needing.

His hips slot against yours, and he’s hard. The heavy weight of his cock pushing against the front of his slacks. You moan low into his mouth, and it’s not ghostly—it’s human. Raw. And that’s what undoes him more than anything. The reminder that beneath all your power, your secrets, your cold—

You’re real.

"You’re soaked in death," he mutters against your mouth, voice raw. "And I still—"

“Still want to fuck me,” you finish, breathless, smirking against his lips. “I can feel it. You think I don’t know what your need tastes like?”

Your hand slides down between your bodies, cupping the thick heat straining against the front of his pants. Bruce hisses through his teeth, hips jerking into your touch, and you laugh—low and lovely and full of wicked delight.

“Look at you,” you murmur, voice thick with sin as you stare down to take in the way his cock strains against your stomach. “So fucking hard for the dead girl.”

It’s more than he can stomach, and Bruce snaps.

He uses a single hand to rip his belt open, the other bracing your thigh against the window so hard the glass groans. Your suit splits open at the hips with a flick of your fingers, the obsidian fabric shifting and slithering like something alive, giving way to skin that’s too perfect, too cold, and he groans—low, rough, helpless. Your suit gone, his shirt shoved up, his pants shoved down just enough for skin to meet skin—desperate and unfiltered.

There’s no ceremony. No slow lead-in. Just the stretch, the pressure, the way your body clenches around him like you’ve been waiting for this—aching for it.

The whole damn building seems to shudder, and your laugh comes out breathless, thrilled. Gotham burns beneath you in the stormlight, streaks of red and gold and shadow, a perfect backdrop to something that was never meant to be soft.

You gasp, sharp nails raking welts down the muscle of his back at the sting of his thick cock forcing a place for itself inside of you. He can feel the way the walls of your cunt flutter around him, gentle caresses that have something dark and consuming blooming in the pit of his stomach.

“You’re soaked,” he mutters against the hollow of your throat, dragging his mouth down the glowing seam of your collarbone, sucking a mark where the light pulses the brightest. “You like this.”

You don’t answer, locking your ankles behind him, digging your nails into his shoulders hard enough to make him snarl. “Harder, Bruce. I can take it.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice.

Every thrust is deep and mean, hips slapping against the cradle of your thighs mercilessly. The sound of skin meeting skin fills the room, wet and obscene. You clench around him, and he groans, fingers digging into your hips so hard they’ll bruise if you let them. 

You meet every thrust with a vicious grind of your hips, moaning his name like a prayer and a curse all at once—hand reaching back blindly to slap the glass, leaving a foggy print behind. The groan that rips its way from his chest is filthy, guttural, primal.

You’re impossibly wet, impossibly tight, and the angle—Christ, the angle—lets him grind so deep it feels like he’s trying to carve himself into your spine. Bruce’s eyes fall to where your bodies are joined, he watches the way his cock punches in and out of your swollen cunt. His skin is coated in your messy wetness, glistening in the moonlight each time he pulls out before disappearing back into your addictive warmth.

Your power lashes around you both, the lights flickering, the storm outside growing louder. Somewhere, the shadows moan.

“You love it,” he growls, voice like thunder against your ear. “Getting fucked like this. Against the glass. Knowing anyone could look up and see—”

“Bruce.” Your voice is the deepest form of sin, soaked in gasoline and waiting to be ignited by the match that only he has the ability of sparking.

Bruce can hardly stand it. The nasty, possessive feeling beats against his ribcage almost as hard as his heart. Scratching and clawing and demanding to be set free. His cock throbs inside of you. He’s close, and the incoherent gurgle of his name passing through your lips only spurs him on.

He’s moving before his brain can process it, his hand loosening its unrelenting grip on the muscle of your thigh to cradle your cheek. It’s heartbreakingly tender, in such a way that he’d never use even when he’s playing up the soft, faux-sentimental fucks of Brucie Wayne. 

His thumb swipes across your slick bottom lip before he can think better of it. Your mouth falls open with a pleased moan, devilish tongue sweeping out to brush against his skin teasingly. For a heartstopping moment, Bruce wonders what it would be like to sink between those plush lips.

The cool kiss of them, or the sweet caress of your tongue, on the scorching tip of his cock. Just the thought has him shuddering, a bitten off curse falling from his lips as he pushes his thumb into your wanting mouth. Your eyes flutter closed, lashes fanning over your cheeks as you hollow them and suck.

“Fuck.” Bruce sets a brutal rhythm, hips pistoning into you with a desperation that belies the calm mask he wears for everyone else. But not for you. Never for you. You get the real thing—unfiltered, cracked open, all ugly need and unbearable weight. You take it, welcoming it with a tilt of your hips and a hiss of pleasure through your teeth as they bite down on his thumb roughly. 

You try to phase, instinctively—too much, too fast—but he grabs you harder, pins you down, keeps you there in your body. “No,” he growls, lips against your skin. “You’re not going anywhere. Not till I’m done.”

The coarse, dark hair dusted along his abs grinds over your sensitive clit with every thrust, the blunt head of his cock hammering against the sweet spot inside of you. His heavy balls slap the bruised, raw skin of your ass.

Bruce tilts his hips just so, and you howl.

Your orgasm hits like a supernatural event, your body clenching around him, pulsing with energy that sinks into him, through him, like it’s marking him from the inside out. He chokes on your name—your real name—and it sends another shock through your system.

Bruce spills into you with a growl that rattles through his chest, buried so deep he forgets what it feels like to be hollow. The pulse of his cock is in time with the pounding beat of his heart.

And he watches, eyes rapt, as you come back down. The heave of your chest as you suck in greedy lungfuls of air you haven’t needed in decades, the glowing satisfaction swirling through your cloudy eyes, your swollen lips slick and parted around the soft pants of pleasure—stained with his blood.

He watches the power only barely contained beneath your skin. The shining white of it swimming through your body languidly, like pure white ink spilled along the surface of a lake, pulsing with life. So fucking alive.

Bruce realizes then that he’s found it.

The best view in Gotham.

mini nat’s note: tagging some lovelies that showed interest in this mess @ebodebo @ovaryacted @lordlottie @wlwloverwrites @dixie-isnt-cool! i love you all...bad! bruce wayne isn't on my taglist, but i might add him later! i do possibly want to write more for him in the future, so yell at me to add him if you want! thank you for reading! mwah <3

[misa-chan13]

Road trip music 😊😊

Tracklist:

Push It • I'm With Stupid • Bled for Days • Love Dump • I Am • Otsegolation • Stem • Sweat of the Bud • Fix • Wisconsin Death Trip • The Trance Is the Motion • December

Spotify ♪ YouTube

[hotluncheddie]

Hug.

wc: 3.4k | rated: T | cw: meltdown, burnout | tags: autistic eddie munson, hurt/comfort, pre relationship, pining, hugging | ao3

.𖥔˚

Eddie Munson has a secret. 

He doesn’t know how to hug. 

Sure, he knows how in theory, and he has been hugged before, with mixed reactions. But it’s been a while. Been a long while actually. So long that embarrassingly, part of him, dreads the day he gets the urge to hug someone. Because he doesn’t think he’ll be able to do it right. 

With Wayne they’re in a routine of shoulder pats or a side on squeeze. If Eddie’s having a really bad time he can curl near him on the ratty sofa and likes to rest his forehead on his uncles shoulder, Wayne’s work worn hands coming up to ruffle his hair, let him be for a while. 

But they don’t really hug. Not for real. Not really. 

And Eddie doesn’t mind, is the thing. He doesn’t need that from his uncle. 

With the hellfire boys it’s always been nudges and poking and a friendly kind of wrestled, headlock, type thing. That’s the line, that’s the boundary. And Eddie’s okay with that too, they’re friends, they’re guys, they’re good people but Eddie just doesn’t think he can show that part of himself to them. The part that doesn’t know, the part that sort of wants more but is too afraid to ask. 

Sometimes the thought or actuality of someone touching him makes him kind of queasy. Makes him twist his rings and pull his hair. He doesn’t want it. Not always.

He knows his Nana used to hug him, before she passed away, and his Mom probably did too, he just can’t really remember. But that was normal, that’s what Moms and Nana’s do. But he doesn’t get that now. That type of hugging. 

Then Eddie meets Steve, meets Steve in the upside down. A different Steve than he’d known of in school. A slightly different Steve again once they’re all out, all healed and patched and the horrors hidden away. 

He meets that Steve. And Eddie, Eddie thinks he wants to hug him. 

He knows he’s being a little weird about it. Fluttering in and out of Steve’s space, never quite letting himself touch, never more than a brush of fingers or a nudge of his hip. Never staying still enough to let Steve make a move on what he wants. 

But then the choice is sort of made for the both of them. Pushed together by fate, maybe, if you believe in that. 

All Eddie believes in, all Eddie knows, is that Steve’s house is so fucking loud. 

‘The walls Stevie they’re so, so white. And your fridge! It’s just, loud and and weird.’ Eddie had said, already frustrated when Steve came to pick him up, even more so once they arrived. 

And once he was inside, it was like everything doubled, tripled. Steve’s house was unbearable tonight. 

But Steve had just laughed and Eddie knew he would, knew from the way he’d said it, all loud and over the top - added inflections, a good DM. But, the thing is, he mentioned it because he meant it, for real. It’s too fucking loud, thrumming under his skin. 

Eddie’s curled up on the couch, everyone else over now too for a movie night. They’re usually enjoyable, seeing the kids, Robin, Nancy. It’s nice. 

But tonight, tonight it’s turned up loud and people are talking and it’s not a scary film but it kind of is. 

He’s biting the skin of his cuticles just to feel something other than itchy and floaty and dizzy with discomfort. His heart is beating too fast and he can hear the blood rushing in his ears. overlapping with the films crashing and static and the rustling of snacks and the cars outside. 

His skin feels sweaty against his clothes, sticking to the sofa and ripping him apart. 

It’s loud and Eddie is scared. 

He mutters ‘bathroom’ and thinks Steve next to him probably heard, even with his head resting on Robins shoulder. Doesn’t stop to find out. Doesn’t really care. Just needs to get out. 

He walks quickly to the stairs and tries not to sprint up them, but takes them two at a time, breathing heavily though his nose. 

Eddie closes the door to Steve’s upstairs bathroom, tears prickling his eyes as he steps from one foot to the other, rocking. His hand migrate to his hair, gripping and pulling harshly. tug stop, pain ebb. 

But the noise still travels, it’s better than in would’ve been in the downstairs bathroom but Eddie shoves the heels of his palms against his ears. He’s panting now, vision blurring. Shoulders and neck tense. 

He pushes against his ears harder, wants nothing, wants quiet. Wants it to bite. 

Thing is, he used to love noise. Would seek it out, find it wherever he could. He’d push practice to run late and he’d hang out at the hideout after their set, just to feel that press of voices all around him. The hum of the amps alone used to fill him up something magic, set his bones alight. 

As a kid he used to crinkle paper by his ears, just to hear it crackle and rustle, like white noise static in his brain and skin. Used to beg Wayne to take him to the junkyard every weekend just so he could bang on the big old rusty metal with a stick. Hear the hum crash, bellow and die out. The different tones, the different dents and scrapes changing the sound. He used to spend hours scrabbling around, trying everything he could to make enough sound, make enough noise, to feel that feeling of everything being full and alive and awake and amazing. 

Now though, after. After those bats screams burrowed into him and made noice synonymous with fear and pain and blood red darkness. Now he’s scared of the stray cats that meow in the night, grates his teeth if someone drags him to the diner, the buzz of the fluorescents and scraping of plates making him want to scream. 

Noise used to be his safe space, now he can’t even be in a room full of his friends. Can't tonight, not like this. And see, he’s always been weird but now even that’s changed.

He doesn’t even recognise himself anymore. 

It’s that thought, that fear, that has Eddie dropping to a crouch, knees under his chin. He leans against the bathtub and tries to steady his breathing. But the tears are slipping out and he feel his lungs contract, he can’t breath, he can’t. 

He pushes his hand harder into his ears, the blood rushing. Rocks so his back hits the tub, thud, thud thud. Remembers how horrible those weeks in hospital were, the bed sheets and the beeping and the smell. It would’ve been horrid anyway but after those days full of fear, that adrenaline he’d gone through but not processed. It was unbearable. 

And he’s still not back, not recovered. He’s so tired. Everything’s so tiring. He can only manage to leave the trailer maybe once a week, when he’s dragged out, taken to something by Steve or Wayne or Dustin. (They try for more but Eddie thinks that might actually make him loose it.) He goes out and tries to act normal, tries to keep the people around him from leaving. Goes out but it all feels different. 

He misses the weight and smell of his leather jacket, his jeans from before and wallet chain he used to fiddle with. Misses who he was when he had those things, who he thought he could be.  

Otherwise he’s in his room, trying to feel better. Sleeping a lot, listening to the same album over and over, eating the same thing just because anything else would be too much. Press too hard on his rips. Be an extra boulder stacked onto his already cracking shoulders. 

Eddie doesn’t hear the door open and close quietly, doesn’t hear Steve’s socks pad over the bathroom rug. 

But he feels his body heat and smells his cologne. Eddie still gasping for breath, too afraid to open his eyes or move his hands from his ears. But he feels body heat, Steve’s here. Eddie feels him. 

His still ragged breaths stutter for a moment when he feels Steves large, warm palm settle between his shoulder blades. He flinches at the contact but Steve doesn’t move, just stays there, touching lightly, in that one place, grounding. Bringing Eddie back to his body slowly. His lungs filling up with a little more air each time he breaths. 

He swallows thickly, coming back to himself slightly, but still scared to open his eyes, deeper breaths bracketed by sobs and hiccups. He hates when people see him cry. 

Eventually he moves his hands so they’re just cupped over his ears, instead of pushed tightly against. He can just make out the soft rumbling of Steve’s voice, too quiet to be heard before but Eddie can understand him now. 

‘That’s it, deep breaths. just like me, okay?’ Steve takes a deep breath. ‘That’s it Ed’s, in for two, out for two.’ He breaths out through his mouth, hand rubbing soothing circles over Eddie’s shoulders. 

Eddie follows, breathing deeper, filling his body with oxygen again. Breathing along with Steve. 

Eventually Eddie moves his hands, sniffing again and scrubbing his cheeks with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. He crosses his arms on his knees and buries his head there. 

He takes another deep breath, finally finding the courage to open his eyes and peek over at Steve. 

He’s backlit by the moonlight shining through the frosted window, the only other light in the room is the orange strip across the bottom of the closed bathroom door. 

Eddie can still hear everyone downstairs, the rumble of the tv, but it doesn’t feel so bad now, doesn’t make his skin crawl so much. He’s not ready to got back out there though. Not yet. 

‘Hi.’ Steve says, smiling at Eddie like it’s another normal day and not one where he just helped Eddie though a full on meltdown in his parents bathroom. 

Eddie snorts. God. He’s so embarrassed.

Swallowing Eddie has to force the words out of his chest, would like to not say anything but Steve is here and Steve is smiling at him and the least Eddie can do is speak a little, as uncomfortable as it is. 

‘Sorry.’ He lands on, voice rough and quiet. 

‘No, none of that Ed’s yeah? Remember, party rules?’ And Steve speaks just as quietly as Eddie did, like he knows, knows how fragile Eddie is right now. Eddie grunts, tears bubbling a slipping out again. 

Party rules are that Steve won’t ask twice if someone needs to come over or call, any time of night. If you need a ride to a members house or just to fall asleep with him on the line, he’s there. Eddie can’t count the number of times he’s seen Steve drop Lucas at Max's trailer late at night, Steve watching until he gets inside. If it isn’t too late he’s started coming to check on Eddie too. Sometimes Eddie’s able to see him, engage with him. Sometimes it’s too much, being a person, even in front of Steve. He leaves Wayne to tell him eddies fine, or as fine as Eddie can be, at the moment. 

‘What can I do?’ Steve asks, bringing Eddie back to the present, to Steve’s bathroom floor. 

Eddie screws his eyes up. He, ugh. ‘I don’t know how to, do, what I want.’ Eddie says, nonessential. But he just. He wants. Wants to feel Steve, imagines that warmth, and grounding, wants more. Too much. 

Steve’s eyebrows furrow slightly, but his face still seems kind, like always. Steve’s always kind. ‘What do you want?’ He asks. 

Eddie looks at the floor, there’s a loose thread on the edge of the rug, he stares at it. ‘A hug.’ He mumbles, cheeks flaming. 

‘Oh.’ Steve breaths. And then, like it’s simple, like it’s nothing. ‘Okay.’ he says and Eddie glances at him. 

Steve shifts so his back is flat against the tub, legs out in front of him and arms open. Waiting. 

‘Take your time, any way you want it.’ Steve says. 

Eddie wipes his face again, shifts onto his knees without really thinking, drawn towards Steve like always. But he falters, hands raised but fingers clenching and unfurling. He twitches his head to the left and few times, almost uncontrollably, he does it again. ‘I, ah, um.’ He doesn’t. He doesn’t know how. 

Because this is different still, from Wayne, from his Nana, from friends. This is Steve. 

But Steve just sits, waiting, looking at Eddie. ‘Take your time. Any way you want Ed’s.’ Steve says again softly, imploring. 

Eddie blinks hard and couple times, tugs at his hair again, focus, focus. He shuffles forward and wraps his arms around Steve’s neck a little awkwardly. His back bending to lean far enough, not sure how hard to squeeze, afraid to be too close, touch too much. 

Eddie’s breathing picks up again, he doesn’t, cant, doesn’t know how. He pulls away, scrubbing at his face again. 

‘Can I?’ Steve starts, moving toward Eddie but stops, waiting for a reply. Eddie nods mutely, cheeks flaming. 

Steve moves closer, Eddie knees up against his thigh. He pulls on Eddies leg, getting him to move it over top of Steve’s. Until he’s essentially sitting in his lap. Eddies eyes are wide, Steve is so close, so warm. 

He keeps going, slowly, bringing Eddie’s chest to his slowly, wrapping Eddie’s arms around his torso and then wrapping his own around Eddie. One big warm palm leading Eddie’s head into the crook of Steve’s neck, where it’s dark, smells strongly of citrus and musk. 

Eddie’s tense, muscles locked tight, but then Steve shifts one more time, getting comfortable and squeezes Eddie once. The pressure, it unlocks something inside him. Steve breaths out, like he’s relaxing too, like this is nice for Steve too. 

‘S’okay Eddie, relax for me.’ Steve prompts quietly, arms squeezing again. Everything soft and quiet and warm. 

Eddie tips over the edge. 

He empties his lungs, slow and stuttering, in and out. Relaxes. Slumping down onto Steve and lets go. ‘Oh.’ It feels so good to be held, to be wrapped up like this. Steve’s arms hold firm around him, pulling them impossibly closer. 

Eddie whimpers, let’s go fully, drifts. 

He thinks he might honestly fall asleep, so exhausted from his meltdown, the emotion and sensory, twist and release. 

He comes too with Steve stroking a hand over his hair and down his back, repeating the long slow motion over and over, like Eddie is some overgrown cat. 

He breaths deep one last time, steals himself for the cold of letting go. Sits back on his heels, extracting himself from Steve’s neck and unfurling his grip of Steve’s waist. 

But Steve stops him getting too far. One hand on the back in eddies neck, one at his hip. It’s almost too much, makes Eddie think about more than friends, about skin on skin. About being held like this, only different. 

‘Sorry, um, thanks.’ He says, afraid to look Steve in the eye, staring at the collar of his polo instead, reaching up to fiddle with one of the little shiny buttons. 

Steve just squeezes Eddie’s neck, letting go to move around slightly now that Eddie’s whole weight isn’t on him anymore. ‘For someone who says they don’t know how to hug, that was pretty nice.’ Steve says once he’s settled, hands back on Eddie hips. 

That makes Eddie glance up, flick his eyes to Steve’s and back down. Just enough time to take in his soft smile and kind gaze, down tuned and sleepy. He looks relaxed, happy. 

Eddie’s heart clenches. But he just huffs, ‘yeah, sure.’ Only he can’t help smiling a little, half believing. Half believing the ridiculousness, That Steve would enjoy this too. 

But Steve reaches up and tucks some hair behind Eddie’s ear, so soft and caring. ‘Hey, I mean it. And if you ever want, ever need this again. I’m here.’ He says, voice still a whisper. 

Eddie feels tears prickle again, how could, how is Steve even real? ‘Careful Stevie.’ He jokes. ‘Say any more and you’ll never get rid of me.’ Eddie doesn’t to want to go, Eddie wants to stay right here forever. But he knows he can’t. Can’t do that. 

‘I mean it Ed’s, any time you want. How-however you want.’ And Steve looks up at him, cheeks pink in the moonlight and eyes wide. Like he’s said too much, like he’s scared too. 

Eddie wants to kiss him. 

Wants to bury his head back in Steve’s neck and never come out. Wants to slip his tongue past the seam of Steve’s lips and grind his hips down just to see what noises he’ll get. Wants to hear him and touch him and taste him all over. Wants to curl up in bed next to him and bring him over to have dinner with Wayne. Wants to share his food and listen to his heartbeat and let Steve in. Let him see more. More of Eddie. 

But not now. Not when there’s salt tracks in his face and phlegm in his throat. When he needs a glass of water and a, like, nine hour nap. ‘Kay.’ He settles on, voice wet but happy, he’s so happy, to have Steve now, even if it’s hard and he’s so tired and so scared. He has Steve. He has Wayne and his friends and he has Steve. ‘Thank you.’ Eddie whispers, feeling held by the dark bathroom. Space and time on pause. He feels brave, feels exposed and covered head to toe in all his past and all his present. Feels here, feels now. 

Eddie leans forward and places the softest of kisses on Steve’s cheek. The first he’s ever given, and how nice, that it’s Steve. How nice, to feel his warmth and hear his little intake of breath. 

Eddie blushes, scrubs at his cheeks again. Slipping off of Steve’s thighs to sit back next to him, shoulder to shoulder, on the little bathroom rug. 

‘Do you want to go back down? Or um, I can take you home?’ Steve asks, sounds unsure but his voice is soft, steady. Eddie bites his thumb, rubs his knuckles against his teeth. 

He doesn’t know what he wants. Wishes they could stay here forever. But there’s a room full of people and this is Steve’s house, he can’t just leave them, can’t just stay here, with Eddie, in his parents bathroom. 

‘I’ll uhm, I’ll just wait here a little longer, until the movie finishes. You go down, be a good host.’ And Eddie smiles, but he doesn’t feel it in his eyes, can’t face the light and noise again just yet, the questions or glances that might come his way. 

‘I’ll go check on them then, take some back and then you can go last. Or, or stay, if you, if you want.’ 

Eddie’s heart clenches again. He wants to, to stay. But he also wants his bed, familiar and inviting. Wants to smell Wayne in the air and have his tape on to fall asleep. Wants normal, after tonight. Needs it. 

But one day. When he feels better. When that spark he had sometimes comes back, the one that believed he could be a rockstar or a writer. That would dream up campaigns and have the energy to write them down. When that part of him comes back, when he’s not so tired. Then he’ll go to Steve, offer himself up, ask for more, ask to stay. 

But tonight he’s too close to breaking, too flayed open and rubbed pink. ‘A lift home later would be nice, just us?’ He asks, it’s so much, fills him up. It’s everything he wants, in this moment. 

Steve nods, bumping their knees together. 

He’s so good, Eddie marvels, for the hundredth time. 

‘Course. I’ll bring you some water.’ And Steve shifts to stand, using Eddie to help him up. It’s so nice, to be this close, a barrier broken, new rules to be made. 

‘You can wait in my room, if you want? It might be more comfortable.’ Steve says, hand on the doorknob. Eddie just nods, blushes, not even sure why. But Steve smiles, pretty and boyish and small.  

He slips out and turns off the light on the landing, the whole floor bathed in darkness. Eddie didn’t even ask, he didn’t even have to. He feels tears well again, laughing a little at it all. At the Steve of it all. 

He stays curled up on the bathroom rug a little longer, in the new quiet memory of Steve and warmth and darkness. Until he’s ready. Knows Steve will be waiting. 

.𖥔˚

Tag List (open) : @scoops-aboy86 @pearynice @xxfiction-is-my-realityxx @cheesedoctor @chickensinrainboots

also.. @spectrum-spectre @babydollbaron @flowercrowngods just bc :)

[maccreadysbaby]

A Hundred Ways to Become a Wayne

batfamily + oc insert

tw: gore

wanna read more? here’s the table of contents!

want to read the first fic in the hundred days series so you understand what’s going on here? here it is!

shaha… nico makes me sad lmao

part forty-three

❝ IMPOSTER ❞

SATURDAY — SEPTEMBER 12 — 8:56PM

THE WORLD WAS MOVING WITHOUT BENTLEY, AND IT WAS THE MOST TERRIFYING THING HE’D EVER EXPERIENCED. 

He couldn’t move. He was pinned to the debris by the massive shard of metal that was protruding from his chest, and all of his pain meshed into one strange feeling of numbness. The only thought that was bouncing around in his head was the last statement he heard from Jason.

That Asten wasn’t breathing.

Asten wasn’t breathing.

Asten couldn’t be dead. He couldn’t. That wasn’t how this was supposed to end. None of this was supposed to end like this. The world could go on without Bentley Whittaker. Everything would be fine without Bentley Whittaker. But how could the earth keep spinning without Asten Evans?

He guessed he should’ve expected it. Nothing he does ever goes right. Only this time it went so, so wrong. Death wrong.

(Was Asten dead because of him?)

There was no one around him. No one that knew where he was except maybe Nico, who was unconscious. All he could really see were the tall buildings and night’s sky over his head, the end of the metal sticking out of him. He couldn’t lift his head, couldn’t really move.

He twitched his fingers on his right hand, which caused a jolt of pain that ran through his entire body and made him whine. 

Was there a point in calling for help if he already knew he was going to die?

His eyes began to water at the half-realization that he was literally living out his last moments alone in a pile of rubble. The thought helped him force his hand up a little more, up toward his pounding head. His muscles were trembling from the effort, and it hurt so bad to move anything… but he didn’t want to die. He didn’t. (But he was going to, he knew. What was one last streak of denial?)

He clicked his earpiece on, and was greeted by a low, constant, staticky hum.

“Help,” He muttered, his voice coming out strangely hoarse and soft. “Help.”

The static continued, melding with the low sounds of the remaining crackling fire and shifting rubble.

“I’m… dying,”

Static.

Bentley’s stinging eyes spilled over down his face, but he couldn’t really cry, it hurt too bad — all he could do was let his eyes water. “Help me. Please. Please, help me.”

Nothing. 

“I don’t… I don’t… I don’t want to die,” He muttered, sniffling lightly, staring at the sky. “I don’t want to die alone.”

Silence.

“Batman,” He tried, wincing when he sobbed a few times anyways. “B, please. I-I don’t want to die by myself. Please.”

The only response he got was a shift in the rubble beneath him, and the twinkle of the stars above him.

He coughed, which sent a ripping pain through his whole body that made him cry out in agony — and now there was blood on his face. Had he coughed up blood?

“Bruce... Bruce, please. Please. I-I want to go home,”

The static in the earpiece didn’t budge.

Bentley was going to die here, and alone.

He would’ve wiped the tears off of his face, but even the thought of moving produced agony, so he didn’t. “Bruce, please. Please, please, please… Dad, please.”

Silence.

(How was he supposed to come to terms with dying? How did people do this? How did Jason…? Damian?)

There was an oddly familiar whooshing sound, and Bentley could’ve swore he heard feet hit the ground not too far from him. If he had the willpower to move his head, he might’ve tried to look at whoever was there to mock him.

Not a second later came a shrill: “Oh my God! Oh my God no way! I did it!” 

The voice wasn’t one he knew, but it wasn’t not one he knew. It was a guy’s, and he didn’t recognize it. (But he kind of did?)

“Screw you, space-time! Barry’s gonna lose his mind when I tell him-“ There was a pause. “Oh, shit, right.”

There were footsteps that came oddly close to Bentley, but he only saw the figure they belonged to when it was practically looming over his head. It was a tall guy -- maybe Jason’s age, maybe Tim’s -- in a bright yellow, white, and red jumpsuit. The majority of it was yellow, with red and white stripes on the arms and legs, accentuating a large white lightning bolt in the center of the chest. The suit went all the way up to his head and stopped, sort of like Tim’s cowl but with the top cut out so his hair was showing. He also had a utility belt around his waist, with only one small, yellow pouch on it.

This guy looked just like Nico. 

Okay, so, yeah, Bentley was dying and probably hallucinating, but this guy had Nico’s eyes that looked so much like Dick’s. Not to mention that he had the same exact dirty-blonde mop on his head, dangling over the edges of the suit.

Bentley really was losing his mind.

“Hey… Hey there, bud,” The Adult Nico Imposter said, kneeling down next to him, his hands hovering unsurely over Bentley’s wound. His blue eyes very quickly turned misty and watery, getting bluer in that weird way only Dick’s and Nico’s did when they cried. “I never saw...”

Bentley’s half-hearted response was a soft, simple: “Huh?”

The Adult Nico Imposter rubbed his hand over his hair, exhaling heavily. “Okay. Okay. Hi. Hi, Bentley, uh, it’s me… Nico, but, uh… not yours. I’m Nico from the future, and I’ve just broken the space-time continuum to be here. So, here I am. God, great job explaining, you idiot,” He muttered to himself, his eyes still blown wide and staring at Bentley’s abdomen. “In the timestream I came from, you died tonight, and now I’m here to make sure you don’t, uh, like Barry did for me. But, uh, I’m not taking you to a new universe, just… yeah. Anyways. Can I pick you up?”

Bentley blinked. He was literally losing his mind.

Since speaking to a hallucination couldn’t really hurt anything, and he didn’t want to die alone (even if his company was blood-loss-generated), he nodded as much as he could force himself to.

With a nod and a deep breath, the Nico Imposter opened the little pouch on his belt and pulled an inhaler out, shaking it and puffing on it a few times with that telltale rattle-rattle-hiss-hiss.

And it was strange, because everything, down to the material of this guy’s suit to the pain caused by movement of the metal piece, Future Nico picking him up felt really… real.

“You’re… from… the future?” Bentley muttered, watching the buildings and stars move above him. Future Nico was really warm, and it felt nice. (Was it even real?)

“Yeah. But saving you is about to make a new one. I’ll have to go back to mine when I’m done here,” He explained lightly, sitting Bentley in his grasp, cupping his head with one hand. 

Bentley hummed. “Did Asten live?”

There was a moment of silence. Future Nico’s gaze fell to the ground, his eyes going distant for a moment.

“No. It was just me,” He replied, shaking his head. “I’m about to run. It might feel weird.”

Bentley said nothing, but closed his eyes and waited. Going super fast couldn’t feel much weirder than being impaled and then picked up by a guy from the future, could it? He was pretty sure his life had reached the maximum amount of weird. Either that or his hallucinations had?

There was a split second (or three) where Bentley couldn’t breathe, and it was really cold. It felt kind of like he was pinned down for a moment, like his whole body stopped moving and then started again.

When he opened his eyes, he was in a medical bed in the Batcave.

The only explanation Future Nico gave was a stammery: “Sorry, Mr. Pennyworth… yeah, hi, um… I’m Nico, but from the future, and I brought Bentley here so he can… Y’know! I… I’ve gotta run, I’ll be right back!”

There was a flash and a gust of wind, and the Future Nico was gone.

Bentley was surely losing his mind.

He was in the cave. (But was he really, if he was just hallucinating?) Barbara was now at the computer, and Bentley very vaguely saw Alfred toss an earpiece to her and abandon his spot at the massive screens to run into the medbay toward him.

“Oh, my dear boy…”

Bentley opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Alfred seemed so real. He touched Bentley’s arm and it felt real. He sounded real. There was no way he… that Future Nico was…?

Maybe Bentley really wouldn’t die?

(There surfaced that unhinged, deep, unmistakable hope and determination again that Bentley Whittaker was so famous for.)

Maybe he really wouldn’t die.

—

Okay. So the worst part about the entire situation at hand actually wasn’t that Bentley had a giant piece of metal protruding from his chest.

It was the fact that Alfred couldn’t get him unconscious enough to start surgery.

He typically had the opposite problem — his body seemed to love passing out at every opportunity, even at the worst times. But right now, Alfred had already administered nearly twice the typical amount of sedatives recommended. And while Bentley was pretty loopy, he just wasn’t going out of it. He’d had two small injections, and was now rocking an oxygen mask with an anesthetic pumping through it constantly to get him in a state where Alfred could help. And it still wasn’t working.

But, even worse than that, was the fact that he had to see Asten.

It wasn’t long (probably three minutes after Bentley arrived) before Future Nico (who had to actually exist because Alfred was talking to him?) zoomed back into view and laid Asten on the bed next to Bentley.

He was limp, and already extremely pale. Bentley wasn’t lucid enough to focus on whether his chest was rising or falling, but he didn’t guess it was, since Jason said it wasn’t. Asten looked… strange. Different from unconscious or sleeping. It was colder. Stranger.

Maybe three minutes (and more sedative) later, Future Nico swooshed back into the cave with Current Nico, who was still unconscious and bleeding at the nose, and put him on the other side of Bentley. But Future Nico was very persistent about Alfred not worrying about him, that he ended up being okay even in his own reality where no one came to his aid.

That was about the time the Batmobile came squealing into the cave, followed by bike after bike with different Wayne’s on them each time. After that, the cave turned into a mess of shouting and yelling and panicking and loud noises and chaos and Bentley still couldn't go to sleep. He couldn’t really comprehend what was going on, but he was awake, which was too awake for the operations he needed.

He didn’t really know what to focus on (or if he could focus) until Nightwing came into his view, over his head, peeling his domino mask off. He was crying — hard. Bentley couldn’t really talk through the oxygen mask (not that he could talk anyways.) but he was able to twitch his fingers and get Dick to grab his hand.

“You’re going to be okay, Babybird. You’re going to be just fine,”

A beat passed. 

“I love you,”

Bentley felt a pinch on his arm, likely meaning someone had injected him with something else.

He couldn’t seem to create any coherent thoughts. He liked that Dick was holding his hand. He was glad to be home, even if he died. At least he wasn’t dying alone.

He opened his mouth in an attempt to speak, but coughed instead, and the inside of his oxygen mask got splattered with something dangerously red.

Seeing that color seemed to spark a wave of panic, and he blinked away a new wave of tears that threatened to come.

“…Dad,” He managed to just barely rasp, coughing again, splattering more red on the mask. “Dad.”

Dick said something, he didn’t really hear it. Someone else said something. 

He managed to turn his head just far enough to see someone (he couldn’t tell who) put a defibrillator on Asten’s chest, and with a loud bang! he convulsed terrifyingly. 

After a moment, someone turned Bentley’s head away. Bruce’s face appeared in the empty space in his vision.

“Everything’s going to be okay, chum,” He said, putting on that same stupid reassuring smile that he loved to plaster on and keep there with his life, even in the worst situations. He touched Bentley’s forehead like he always did.

“You’re going to be okay. Just breathe. Rest,”

Bentley wasn’t going to die alone.

Bruce kept brushing his hair back, smiling all the while, and for the first time since he’d been home, Bentley relaxed enough to let the sedatives take him under.

—

dedicated to @sassenashsworld 💚

—

tag list! (If you want me to remove or add you, ask in comments!)

@fleur-alise @sarcopterygiian @flyrobinflyy @skylathescholar @gayboss-too-close-to-the-sun @xiaonothere @beatyoutothatusernameloser

[kaijuheon]

HI @puppetdyke taggd me in this here are 6 of my fav albums from 6 of my fav artists:) + i am going to yap briefly about each one and add my fave song for funs

1. bakufu slump(爆風スランプ) - pylori/pirori(ピロリ) fav song: shinwa (神話) thank you so much gamera for introducing me to bakufu slump i absolutely adore them, their songs are so richly layered and funky and i’ve sobbed over shinwa and mijikai koi more times than i’d like to say

2. sevendust - home fav song: rumble fish so grateful that i’ve been able to see them live, true genius masterminds of metal, lajon my beloveddd he has such an insane voice and morgan is just an absolutely unreal drummer, every riff and every chorus on this album is etched into my mind and i go wacky for them every time

3. machine girl - the ugly art fav song: fuck puppet i will be a machine girler FOR LIFE this album changed my life on many long transit rides, a true Wall of Sound, brutal in a crazy sexy cool way and the less batshit tracks are still so swagful

4. static-x - wisconsin death trip fav song: wisconsin death trip once again so grateful i have been able to see them live (though not with wayne :( RIP 🐐), picture me at the cybergoth rave under the bridge yea that’s me with this album without fail every time i go crazy i go wacky off it

5. aphex twin - syro fav song: circlont14 it’s really close for me between SAW and syro, just making sure i don’t fit in by choosing syro🤓but really i just dig the vocal chops on this album and the stronger acid focus it makes me feel like an Inkling or mayhaps an Octoling squidding around…. you know…. i love you Richard Twin

6. system of a down - system of a down fav song: spiders Don’t even joke lad…. war! is a really close fave but i had a religious experience off 50mg gummy listening to spiders once so i cant betray it

OK umm i tag @rcedge @sapphyre-blogs @neuroticlump @pepsidogonline only if you want to:3 Ok goodbye now

[xnoybis]

I’m sorry about the struggle you went through/ are going through. That’s a really good fucking song so it’s cool you know it.

Yeah Wayne static is rad. His music career feeds my delusion that I too can one day make it. I don’t know, I’ve always told myself I’m too old to start learning music but he was well into his thirties when he released their debut. Dug his whole vibe a lot. RIP he will always be missed ☹️

[gffa]

When you read this issue as a "oooh creepy nightmares haunt Batman!" story, I gotta say, Knight Terrors falls kind of flat for me.  We’re losing months of the main continuity to this?  It’s not bad, but it’s kinda just... there. Yeah, it's really cool symbolism and it's all the classic fears that Bruce has rattling around in that traumatized skull of his, right down to the graveyard headstones of his children, the literal bat-monster with the gun for a head that's vomited of him as a symbol for the monster inside the person, the bullets ripping through little goth princeling Bruce's body so that the adult Batman can burst forth.  But it's not treading any new ground. Until it gets reframed as, "That's the point. It's nothing new and it falls flat because we've had seventy years of Batman comics going to this well over and over, until it has lost its edge. Bruce himself has relived this trauma so many times that it can't show him anything new.  It's flat as a spooky story, but as a character story, it's saying something much more interesting." As a character story, what this is illustrating is a Bruce Wayne who knows what his traumas are and has worked to accept them so that they no longer control him.  He's done this through really fucked up processes and a whole boatload of comic book logic, but it is this world's version of processing his fears, in a sense.  And, as a character story that can be viewed through the lens of mental illness, this is about illustrating another point on the journey of trauma recovery, that today Bruce can stand up and face down a nightmare of seeing his parents get shot, feeling the monster inside him being vomited out and, instead of being horrified at what was in him, instead of being dragged down by seeing himself as a monster, even when his child self is shot by it and ripped apart, he himself, THE BRUCE WAYNE OF THE PRESENT, has control of his experience today. It's important that this is Bruce's nightmare, that everything here is what his own brain is throwing at him, because that's what trauma is--your brain throwing your own fears and horrific memories at you, trying to drown you, and the path of recovery doesn't mean you never experience it again, it means you learn to control yourself through it. It means, some days, you can be a child watching your parents die and the monster inside you ripping you apart, and you can stand up and say, "Yeah, this is part of me, but it's not in control of me." And now, instead of being an "oooh~ Batman's worst fears have come to haunt him~" story, it's a story about a trauma victim having gained enough sense of self to fight back and even go deeper into his own nightmare, because the best written fictional stories are ones where characters aren’t static.  They grow, they evolve, they face their fears enough times that eventually they learn to process it and a story where the point is that, on this day, Bruce Wayne has seen this so many times, there are no edges left for him or for us the reader, and we can see that it’s possible to grow beyond the things that traumatized us.

[selkienight60]

⚡༶•┈┈⛧┈ ⚡ ┈⛧┈┈•༶ ⚡ ⚡༶•┈┈⛧┈ ⚡ ┈⛧┈┈•༶ ⚡

𝙻𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙶𝚘𝚕𝚍, 𝙴𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚌 𝙱𝚕𝚞𝚎 by 𝚜𝙴𝚕𝚔𝚒𝚎𝙽𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝟼𝟶

⚡༶•┈┈⛧┈ ⚡ ┈⛧┈┈•༶ ⚡ ⚡༶•┈┈⛧┈ ⚡ ┈⛧┈┈•༶ ⚡

| Rᴀᴛɪɴɢ: General Audiences | Wᴀʀɴɪɴɢs: Bodily Injury | Fᴀɴᴅᴏᴍ: Batman/Batfam, The Flash (2023) | Rᴇʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴsʜɪᴘs: Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne | 

A/N: Struck by the idea of Michael Keaton’s Batman having a Robin. And THEN I thought, what would an excellent Batman do if his son from another universe just like, landed in his lap. Because suddenly: Fatherhood?

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Laughing hurts, Dick reflects, half-mad with the agony of iron rebar piercing through his side.

Dirty alley water pools about his knee-guards as he sinks deeper into the dirt and debris of Gotham’s soiled streets. Around the metal poking from his torso his hands flutter, but never touch. If he pulls the damn thing out now, he’ll bleed to death.

The sting of late fall creeps into his hands, growing numb with blood-loss as he reaches up for the wonkily lodged comm in his ear.

The chill in the air makes clouds of steam from his breath. “N-Nightwing to… to anyone,” he huffs, smothering the wine as he clamps down on a rasp working its way up his throat. “I—I need emergency evac—” 

The rest is effectively cut away as a broken cry spills over his lips, accompanied by a dry sob.

There’s nothing but static on the end of the line, but he’s aware the rest of his family is otherwise engaged.

“N-Nightwing t-to B-Batman—” he tries again, hoping Bruce isn’t so occupied with the rips in space time that he won’t come at all.

It’s quiet in this alley, away from the commotion downtown. Frankly, Dick’s not entirely sure how he ended up here.

No one quite knew why the fabric of space had seemingly decided to open up across the globe without rhyme or reason. At first, Batman had believed them under attack, but slowly, it became clear that the space-time visibly colliding through the tears in the fabric was something much worse.

On his own, doing his best to usher a bus-load of school children out of the way of a collapsing building, it had taken only one misstep to find himself flailing backwards, falling through one of the space-time rips as it opened up beneath him. The collapsing office block had narrowly missed him, but had nonetheless left him with a souvenir in his side as it toppled over and Dick fell.

The landing, thankfully, hadn’t appeared to lodge the rebar any deeper.

The unbroken line of white noise in his ear scratches—once, twice—and then flares to life.

“Who is this?” 

The gruff voice of Batman washes over him alongside relief.

“Batm—” he starts, and is then unable to contain the whine of pain as his breath hitches. “Bru—”

The line goes silent. Dead. But the static doesn’t return, so Dick knows Batman is still there.

He breathes through the pain, in just the same way Bruce taught him.

“Dad…” he whispers through steadily numbing lips. “N-need emergency evac.”

There’s a second of hesitation. A blink-and-you’ll miss it beat of silence.

“I’m tracking your location now,” says Batman finally, all business again, even though the odd pause upsets something in Dick’s gut.

A space-time rip opens up a few blocks away—he can hear another building collapsing in on itself. Head whipping up, he sees the Bat Signal flicker on and off atop the police station. The power grid must be damaged.

It doesn’t matter. Not like he can respond to Gordon’s pleas for help right now anyway.

Heavily, he falls against the ground, eyes growing heavy with the weight of blood-loss.

It’s only a second and an eternity later that he hears the batmobile pull up, the roar of the engine so much louder than he remembers.

The cowl swims into view.

“B…” he whines, though whether it leaves his mouth or simply stays lodged in his throat is a matter he’s unsure of.

The man in the cowl bends, scooping him up like he weighs nothing at all.

“You’re alright, chum,” he says, though he’s doing a poor job of concealing the panic in his voice. “We’ll get you fixed up.”

He can’t help it. He smiles at the nickname predominantly reserved for a younger version of himself.

“... call’d me ‘chum,’ he chuckles, and then nearly passes out entirely from the pain in his stomach.

Bruce holds him a little tighter.

It’s bad… this time.

“Dad,” he sighs. “Don’t… don’t bury me like Jason, mkay?”

Bruce doesn’t say anything, but Dick doesn’t really expect him to.

He feels the plush comfort of the Batmobile seats as he is laid down in the back. Bruce is careful to situate him so the rebar doesn’t move.

“You’re not going to die today,” growls Batman as he slams closed the door and climbs wordlessly into the front seat.

They’re off like a shot. Dick’s dimly aware of the space-time rips opening up all around them. He can see the rise and fall of buildings as universes collide through the window.

Bruce doesn’t stop for them, though. The man’s gaze remains firmly fixed on the road.

It comes as only a little bit of a surprise when Dick sees The Flash—Barry Allen—racing alongside the Batmobile. For a second, he thinks he almost sees two of the man.

Batman winds down the window.

“We’ve identified the source of the rupture,” Barry says, talking a mile a minute. “Universe forty-four. We’re headed there now.”

Batman nods without comment.

“We’re going to attempt to contain it from this side, but, Bruce—if we go through with this plan, our universe will be cut off forever, you know that, right?”

Batman nods again.

“Do it,” he grunts. “Whatever it takes. If we don’t, we’ll simply be like all the other dying universes.”

Maybe it’s the blood-loss, but Dick finds it rather funny when Barry sighs. It’s definitely the blood-loss.

“Alright,” Barry agrees, his jaw set grimly. “Uncharted territories, here we come.”

The Flash disappears, speeding off with a trail of lightning gold and electric blue, and the Batmobile changes course, set on a familiar route toward the manor.

Dick closes his eyes.

And passes out again.

Because when he wakes, Bruce is lifting him out of the car, shuffling toward the med-bay.

The cot he’s set down on squeaks in protest.

Bruce goes off to gather up the supplies on his own and returns with a needle in hand. He doesn’t wait or ask before sticking Dick in the side of the neck with it. 

A mask comes up over his mouth.

“It’s alright,” he soothes, even as Dick grasps at his wrist. “We’re gonna get you fixed up, okay? Just relax and count backwards from ten.”

Dick’s out before he even starts.

[itcamefrombeneaththeblog]

To this day it pains my heart that this isn't a well known and beloved song across the world. It is a masterpiece.

RIP Wayne.

[pics-and-fanfics]

These are Tim centric! And very child neglect stories! You have been warned!

SHUTTERBUG! This ripped my heart out in the best way, I would willingly go back in time and relive a whole bunch of shit over the last few months just to read this for the first time again. @goldkirk did an absolutely amazing job writing this, I cried while reading it at school multiple times

5 times Tim spent the night at Wayne manor + 1 time he came home. Self explanatory. Tooth rotting fluff, tooth rotting angst. Was kicking my feet, squealing, foaming at the mouth earlier when I remembered this fic. This is what prompted the ask!

Anton Syndrome. Featuring Jack Drake being a pedophile.

The capillaries in my eyes are bursting. Tim’s parents die in an explosion, Bruce and Robin!Jason investigate.

The butler’s neighbor. No child abuse! This one’s just fucking adorable, I’m sorry.

And now onto non-Tim centric fics!

Something in the static! This is by the lovely @bonerot19, the series is fucking amazing, I absolutely loved it, and still do (I haven’t caught up in a while but I haven’t caught up on anything in a while)

Literally anything by @ghost-bxrd, I love Owl Song so much, it’s just absolute perfection

Shameless plug (my fic!) It’s been almost either 2 or 3 years since I got the very first idea for the fic, which was actually originally a video script (used to wanna be a YouTuber) here’s a link to a long post that goes in depth about it! I’m very proud of this fic, I’ve currently got over 300 pages in a Google doc and over 60 chapters, so.

And that’s all!

Love you! 🩷

CAN I REC

CAN I REC

CAN I RECOMMEND A FIC?

PLEASE (I’ll recommend 5)

Yes

fics are always appreciated

[thecreativemillennial]

The late Wayne Static and Chester Bennington back in 2004

[randgugotur-6]

Mar 17th 2009 #StaticX released the album “Cult of Static” #Stingwray #Terminal #Nocturnally #Skinned #IndustrialMetal

Did you know...

This was their last to feature drummer Nick Oshiro and founding member and vocalist Wayne Static. https://t.co/xRMne7gtNJ