#the 100 x you

[bingbongsupremacy]

Drunken Mistakes Pt. 1

Pairing: John Murphy x Reader

Warnings: Use of Y/N, Pregnancy, Reader can get pregnant, swearing, throwing up.

Summary: It was a one night stand. That's all it was. Little did you know that it'd lead to something else.

*Not Proof Read*

This Fic does not mention body type, weight, race, gender, etc. If I happened to mess up and add a pronoun or anything that could define the readers appearance, please let me know so I can fix it. Ty!

*****

" How long has this been going on? " Clarke asks while casting me a sympathetic look.

I brush my hand over my mouth, trying to wipe off any remaining vomit off of my lips. The bitter taste of stomach acid lingers in my mouth, something that almost causes another round of vomiting.

" I'm not sure. A few weeks? " I try to create some distance between me and the nauseating smell a few inches away from me. I lean back against a rough fallen tree, taking a few deep breathes.

" Have you been feeling extremely tired lately? "

I nod. " I think it's just a cold, C. I'll be fine in a bit. "

I hope it's just a cold. Clarke saw me running out of the drop ship to puke and decided to follow me. Ever since then she's been asking question after question.

I just want to go lie down.

" When was the last time you had your period? " Clarke's question catches me by surprise.

My eyes widen. " Whoa. Look, I appreciate your concern but I don't remember scheduling a consultation, doc. "

I hadn't really thought of that. These questions...she can't be serious, right?

Clarke takes a seat on the tree next to me, her body turned to face me. " Y/N, I think you might be pregnant. "

What?

" No, no. " I shake my head. " No fucking way. "

Clarke sends me a small smile. " I think so. All the symptoms...I've seen this before. I'm guessing your chest has been hurting and you've might of had some cramping? "

I think back to the past few days. She's not wrong. My body's been very weird the past few weeks, especially in the morning when I seem to have my daily puke fests.

" You're pregnant, Y/N. " Clarke softly states again.

" I can't be. " I shake my head. My chest begins to develop a tightening feeling. I pull my knees towards my chest so I can hug myself. " I can't be fucking pregnant. Fuck no. " I bury my head into my knees.

" Look, I can't be one hundred percent sure on this. At least not yet. If you start to show, then we'll know for sure. " Clarke gently pats my shoulder to try to deliver some sort of comfort. " For now, just try to relax, okay? We'll figure this all out when we know for sure. "

This is the last thing I wanted. I knew I shouldn't have gotten drunk.

But everyone did. I mean, we were all so excited to be on earth for the first time. What else is there to do in a place like this but party and hang out with the people around us?

Should I tell John?

We don't know for sure. Not yet. Besides, who knows how he'll react. He's on some weird power trip. Who knows what he's capable of doing.

What if he doesn't want the baby? What if decides to convince Bellamy to banish me or has his friends kill me or something?

Plus we don't know anything about this planet. At least not about how it is now. Is it even safe to bring a kid into a world like this? We don't know what's fully out there. What if there's more than just mutated animals.

Relax. You don't know what's going on yet. It could just be a cold.

Hopefully it's just a cold.

*****

" You were right. " I blurt after bursting into the drop ship.

Clarke looks up from her heated conversation with Bellamy, her brows furrowed in confusion. " What? "

" You were right, Clarke. " I state again, my words beginning to wobble. " You were fucking right. "

Clarke's eyes widen as she realizes what I'm saying. She immediately abandons her conversation with the man in front of her, instead rushing to me.

" What's she talking about? " Bellamy calls after Clarke.

Clarke ignores him and grabs my arm, gently leading me out of the now suffocating drop ship. Clarke leads me into the forest, just far enough for our conversation to be private.

How tears of frustration begin to flow down my cheeks. " I can't believe this, I'm pregnant. I'm fucking pregnant. "

Over the past few days I started to notice a small protrusion in my stomach. Originally I'd thought it was just bloating. It's not bloating. I'm showing.

" What the fuck am I going to do, Clarke? I can't raise a baby. Not here! Not without my mom. I'm all alone and I don't fucking know what to do. " I cry.

Clarke gently takes a hold of my shoulders. " Hey, hey listen. You're going to be okay. You're not alone, I swear. We're here to help you. I'm here to help you. And, you have the baby's dad, don't you? "

The mention of Murphy causes me to let out a small sob. Do I? What if he accuses me of sleeping with someone else, claiming it's not his kid? What if he wants nothing to do with it? After all, it's not like we're dating or even friends for that matter. It was a one time thing. I can hardly stand him as it is.

" I don't know. " I shake my head.

" What do you mean you don't know? You don't know who the dad is? " Clarke asks in confusion.

" No! I-I know who the dad is. I just don't know if he'd want to help. " I pull away from Clarke and sit down on the ground, pulling my knees in to tuck into myself.

Clarke sits down next to me. " Who is it? "

" Murphy. " I mumble softly.

" Who? " Clarke asks again, apparently not hearing me the first time.

" It's Murphy. " I say louder this time.

Clarke is silent. She doesn't know what to say. She's not his biggest fan and I think part of her is thinking the same way. He might not want anything to do with the baby at all.

" I don't think I can do this. It's danger out there, Clarke. There's people we don't even know. What if I get the baby killed? What if we're attacked and I can't defend it? " I air out my worries. " Or what if I'm such a bad parent that they end up hating me? "

" Don't think like that. You don't know what's going to happen which is terrifying but also beautiful. Your baby will love you no matter what happens. And even if you don't have Murphy, you'll still have me and the others. We're a community. We're not going to let you deal with this alone. " Clarke reassures me.

" I don't know, Clarke. " I sigh.

" Listen-" Clarke begins before she's interrupted by one of Bellamy's lackies.

" Clarke, Bellamy needs to speak to you in the drop ship. "

Clarke lets out a small huff in frustration. " What is it now? " She mutters while standing up. She turns to me once more before leaving. " We'll finish this later. Just try to go relax. Maybe take a nap or something. Stress isn't good for the baby. "

This world isn't good for the baby.

Clarke follows the boy back towards the drop ship, disappearing after a few minutes.

I'm going to need bigger clothes in a few months. Where am I going to get them? What about baby clothes? Or toys? Or books? Medication?

Stop.

I force myself to try to calm down. It's going to be okay. It has to be.

I head back in the direction of my make shift sleeping area. Maybe some sleep will help.

Before I'm able to make it very far Mbeige stops me. " Where do you think you're going? " He asks, his voice stern.

" None of your business. " I spit, trying to walk past the boy.

He doesn't let me pass. " It is my business. We need this wall up by nightfall. Get to fucking work. " His voice is venomous, his eyes glaring into mine.

He's not playing.

" I need to go to my tent. " I try to push, not daring to back down from his stare. I fucking hate this guy. He and a few others including John, make it their daily goal to make the lives of everyone shitty.

" You don't need to go anywhere but the wood pile to start putting up the wall. " Mbeige persists.

I glare at the man for a moment, scanning his eyes for any signs of a possibility for him to let me through. Nothing.

" Fine. " I spit, turning on my heals. I walk towards the nearest wood pile and begin to pick up pieces of heavy, thick wood. I manage to drag a few pieces towards the wall and set them up before I feel sweat start to build up from the heat. I need water.

I struggle to pick up one particularly heavy log when one of Mbeige's friends shouts at me.

" Pick up the fucking pace. We don't have all day here. " He snaps.

Annoyance and anger burn up my face. Maybe they should get off of their lazy asses.

" Y/N! " Clarke's voice shouts from out of no where. " Put that down! " She demands while running over to us.

" Stay out of this, Clarke. Y/N's a big kid. They can handle a little weight. " Murphy smirks. He was alerted to the situation from Clarke's yelling.

I try to ignore the snickers from Murphy's friends as I continue to drag the log over to where it needs to be used.

" I'm serious! Y/N can't be carrying shit like that! " Clarke doesn't back down.

Murphy's eyes flicker over to me as he observes my struggle. Humor is evident in his tone. " And why would that be? What makes Y/N so different than the rest of us that they get special privileges' while we have to work? Hm? "

Clarke's expression is furious. She storms towards Murphy before whispering into his ear.

Murphy's friends immediately flock to his side, ready to force her away.

Murphy's eyes widen as they meet mine. His cocky smirk slides off his lips and his face falls into one of surprise. The malice in his eyes fades away and is quickly replaced with shock.

He knows. Clarke told him.

What the fuck.

" Take the wood from Y/N. " Murphy's words surprise me. His demeanor is very different now, his shoulders unusually tense. His gaze doesn't leave mine as he orders his friends around. " Now! For fucks sake, Mbeige, take the fucking wood! " He shouts.

Mbeige doesn't need to be told again. He swiftly takes the wooden log out of my hands and begins to pull it towards the wall.

Murphy's friends cast confused looks at each other.

" You need some water. " Clarke breaks the silence. She walks over to one of the pouches of water and picks it up.

" You're not seriously going to let them drink water when they just barely started fucking working. " One of Murphy's friends complains.

Murphy still hasn't taken his gaze away. " Mind your own fucking business. " He snaps aggressively.

Clarke brings the water over to me and I hesitate to drink it. Everyone around us has paused their jobs, instead choosing to watch us.

" I'm okay. " I shake my head and refuse the drink I so desperately want.

" Drink it. " Murphy orders again.

I meet his gaze again.

His eyes slightly soften. " Please. "

Feeling very uncomfortable, I accept the pouch from Clarke and take a sip. The cool liquid immediately soothes my thirsty throat.

" Back to work everyone! " Murphy orders to the people who are watching us. " This wall better be up by tonight or no dinner! " He threatens.

Once I've had my fill of water, I turn my attention back to Murphy. He walks towards me before stopping a few feet away from me.

" I think we need to talk. "

Oh shit.

[bumblesimagines]

we need to talk about this.

we could hang out outside of this arrangement, you know.

Bellamy Blake

we need to talk about this.

we could hang out outside of this arrangement, you know.

Pronouns: They/Them/Theirs, GN!Reader

You dipped your hands into the stream, feeling the cool water run over your skin and wash away the bits of bark and dirt that'd been left behind. You could still feel the imprints from keeping your hands pressed against the rough wood of the tree, a soft sigh escaping you as you raised your hands from the water and traced the imprints with your fingertip. Leaves and sticks crunched loudly behind you, prompting you to stand and face Bellamy. He fumbled with his pants, chest still rising and falling as if he'd run a marathon.

"I don't understand how you can recover so quickly." He chuckled, finally buttoning and zipping them up.

"I was raised to be a fighter, Bellamy. A warrior." You raised your brows at him, unable to contain the smug grin from spreading across your face. "Maybe you should start training more often. Helps with stamina." 

"Yeah, yeah," He scoffed playfully and leaned in, fingers digging into your sides as he pulled you closer to him. Clingy, like a child who constantly wanted to be held. You tilted your head back, breaking away from the kiss and chuckling softly. 

"You should head back. It won't be pretty if either of us are caught with each other." You reminded him, rolling your eyes when he groaned quietly and dropped his forehead onto your shoulder. You pressed your hands against his chest and lightly pushed him. "Come on, Bellamy. It'd be a shame if your pretty face went to waste."

"We could hang out outside of this arrangement, you know," Bellamy said, tilting his head to brush his lips over the side of your neck before he raised it to look at you. 

"Arrangement?" You repeated with a soft laugh, brows furrowing when his face remained serious. You stared at him in disbelief, your hands dropping to your sides and lips remaining parted. Lincoln would surely laugh if he even caught a glimpse of your face. "My people despise yours, and for good reason. There is... no need for us to 'hang out' or even speak after we have our fun."

"We need to talk about this, (Y/N). You seriously want to deny there's nothing between us? We've been doing this for nearly two weeks! We've been lying to others, to family." 

"What, as if you don't fool around with other Skaikru? This is the problem with you people. You think everything you touch belongs to you." You groaned, pushing him back and turning on your heel to pick up your bow and quiver. You slung the quiver over your shoulder and scoffed softly, fingers curling tightly around the bow. "I helped you when you were caught in that trap because I felt sorry for you. You returned the favor by not killing me when I was hunting. We didn't help each other for- for love. There was an understanding, a trade. And then, we began trading pleasure, and that's what it was always about, Bellamy. Pleasure. A break from the chaos. If things changed for you, then I'm sorry. But falling for the enemy is worse than sleeping with them."

[wlw-imagines]

Space Oddity - Clarke Griffin/Reader (The 100)

prompt: "can i have a clarke griffin imagine where the reader dies in the culling up in space in seasn 1 and clarke finds out? thx!!!" - anon 

a/n: these are from my old tumblr thefandomwritings from back in 2018 ! re-vamped and re-purposed!! hope u enjoy and forgive the 2018 me style writing + the drama lmao  

Her Dad's Floating

"Clarke." You opened your arms just in time for her to collapse in them, sobs shaking her whole body.

"He's gone. My dad's gone and I just watched. I didn't do a single thing."

"You couldn't do anything."

"It's all my fault." She stared off into space for a few moments before you managed to ground her again, bringing her back to reality.

"None of this is your fault." You looked her in the eye, holding her chin in your hand. You gently brought her lips to yours, placing a soft kiss on them. She didn't react at first so you pulled away, not wanting to force feelings onto her. Before you could properly pull away, you felt her hand grip the back of your neck, pulling you back into her.

You could taste her salty tears on her lips and you wish you could have done something, anything, to prevent this. You pulled apart at the sound of heavy footsteps approaching the two of you. Guards were instantly filling the room causing you to protectively wrap your arms around Clarke, glaring at anyone that made a move towards you.

"I should go." Clarke sniffed and you frowned. "All my drawings are in my box, look after them for me. I wouldn't want anyone else to have them. They're all for you, I've been saving them to give to you."

"No, Clarke, don't. I'll protect you. I'll always protect you. You know that, right?"

"Of course I do but some battle can't be won Y/N." She shook her head when you went to protest, "I'll see you soon."

You nodded in understanding, letting Clarke do what was best, "I love you. See you soon, Space Oddity."

The Radio

"Clarke. Someone's on the radio for you." Raven smirked as she swung down from the drop ship.

"If it's my mother then tell her I don't want to talk right now." Clarke seethed, picking at the fraying cloth of her shirt.

"Nope, the request was from a little someone called Y/N. She asked for her, and I quote, 'Space Oddity'." Just the thought of talking to Y/N made Clarke's insides go fuzzy, her heart skipping a few beats as she ran towards the radio.

"Move, let me talk." She demanded. Everyone simply did as they were told, not wanting to get in-between Clarke and Y/N's reunion. "Y/N, baby? Can you hear me?"

"Clarke? Is that actually you? You sounds so much like... my god! You sound like my Clarke! I've missed you so much!" You laughed. Everyone witnessing the conversation couldn't stop a smile from spreading on his or her face at the sound of happiness - something everyone was gravely missing at the moment.

"Of course it's me, you idiot." She sniffed. "I've missed you. EVerything about you."

Your voice crackled due to the bad reception and there was a slight pause before the comment came through, "Yeah? Two seconds of talking and you're already insulting me, calling me an idiot, you little shit."

"Whatever." She laughed, "you will honestly love Earth when you come down here. The smells, the sights, the colours. I promise, you'll fall in love, Y/N." A grin covered your face at the thoughts of being on Earth with Clarke.

"I've already fallen in love, Clarke. I love you and you don't know how much I want to kiss you right now." You bit your lip and looked up at the ceiling, letting a deep sigh escape your lips. "It's been a while."

Tears began to sting Clarke's eyes, "I'll see you soon." She was interrupted by the noise of a heavy static ringing in her ears, the connection had been broken. "I love you." Clarke whispered into the now-useless radio. "I love you Y/N."

The Culling

"Abby!" You pushed through the volunteers lining up to take part in the culling, trying to get to the front of them.

"Y/N, I don't think you should be here to see this. Listen, go back to the hospital wing and we can talk there. Please." She cut you off, kissing your forehead. You smiled grimly and shook your head slightly, taking a shaky breath.

You shut your eyes and thought of Clarke, you were doing this for her and Abby. "Please, can you give this to Clarke?" You asked, sliding your ring off your finger and kissing it softly before holding it out for Abby to take.

"Look, I don't have the time right now. We can talk la-" She stopped herself when you slipped your shoes off, throwing them to the side of the hallway. You forced Abby's hands around your ring and stepped towards Jaha. "Y/N?" Her voice showed panic as she gripped onto your arm. "What do you think you are doing?"

"I'm doing what's right, Abby. Tell her I love her everyday." You swallowed the lump in your throat. "Clarke needs you more than she needs me. You need to get down to her, look after her." You tried to give her a reassuring smile. "And you need oxygen to do that. Listen, Clarke can find love again but she'll only ever have one mother."

"No, I can't let you do this. I am not letting you go in there." Abby shook her head, holding onto you even more firmly.

"I'm sorry but you don't have a choice, Abby." You shook your head, avoiding her glance as a tear rolled down her cheek. The two of you had grown a close bond, almost as if she were your own mother and so saying goodbye was hard. Especially since you weren't only saying goodbye to Abby but to Clarke as well.

You nodded your head at Kane who shook your hand. Abby shook her head again and stepped forward, "Y/N, you are not going into that room, I forbid it." She clenched her jaw, trying to act more brave than she felt.

"Yes, I am. I love you. Make sure Clarke knows I love her and stop her from doing anything too stupid." You smiled and took a few steps back. Kane wrapped his arms around Abby before she could follow and you watched as she struggled against him.

Jaha stepped forwards and shook your hand, "Thank you for doing this, Y/N. You will forever be remembered."

"Hell yeah, I will be." You mumbled, nodding at him before entering the room. You looked around at the citizens before you; most of whom were leaving so that loved ones could live. You spotted an empty corner and made your way towards it, pulling some items out of your pockets before you sat down and got comfortable.

I'll always protect you.

You laid Clarke's drawings in front of you, all the ones that you had collected over the years. Small doodles of you sleeping, sketches of your kisses, space and all it contained. Amongst the drawings were love letters, memories, jokes that were messily scrawled down, notes that were not so secretly passed in class. All tied up with a piece of string.

You will love Earth, I promise, you'll fall in love Y/N.

I've already fallen in love, Clarke.

Before you knew it your eyes were feeling heavy and you were losing your vision, you could no longer see the drawings in front of you. You took all the strength your body had left to clutch the pictures to your heart and send one last thought to Clarke, the girl you would do anything for.

Tell her I love her. —

"Where is she? Can anyone see Y/N Y/L/N? Please?" Abby rushed through, pushing past others as gently as she could. As soon as she saw you her heart seemed to stop beating, "Oh god, what have we done?"

She made her way through the dead until she got to you. Your eyes were still open, set on the package you had clutched in your hand. Abby choked back a sob and put her hand over her mouth before bending down and gently closing your eyes. She held your face in her hands and kissed your forehead, then your eyelids, your nose and your cheeks.

"I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry that I let this happen." Her fingers fumbled as she took the bundle out of your hands. She couldn't bear to even glance at them so she immediately clasped her hands around it, silently swearing that they would soon be with Clarke.

Earth

"Mom?" Clarke whimpered as her eyes fluttered open. She was laying on a bed in the medical ward, weak and tired.

"Clarke, you need to rest." Abby stroked her daughter's cheek and tucked some hair behind her ear.

"I want to see Y/N. She came down here with you, right?" Clarke pushed herself up, or at least attempted to.

Octavia shuffled forwards from the shadows and put a hand on her friend's shoulder, "Clarke, you should listen to your mom."

"No, I need-" She protested, struggling to get out of everyone's sudden grip on her. She hesitated and relaxed momentarily, letting out a small defeated sigh. She looked into her mother's eyes, begging. "Mom, please. Just let me see her. I need her."

Living on Earth without you for the past few months had felt like hell and hearing your voice on the radio once or twice ages ago wasn't enough. She needed to feel you, smell you, touch you, love you, and kiss you. She had already been made to wait too long and now people were just wasting her time.

Clarke's heartbeat quickened when she saw the looks passed around the room. She stubbornly looked everyone dead in the eye yet they all would immediately avert their gaze. It was at that moment that something inside Clarke finally snapped.

"No. Look at me, Why aren't you looking at me? Bring Y/N to me. Now! Please." She cried out, verging on hysteria. Abby quickly ushered everyone out, her daughter needed time for grieving. "What the hell happened? What did you let her do?"

"She... She told me that she loves you Clarke." Abby crouched down, her throat already closing up. "She loved you so much. I swore to her that I would give you these." Abby gave the ring and the papers to her daughter who immediately burst into uncontrollable tears. "I'm so sorry, I tried."

"What happened? Please, mom, I need to know exactly. What the hell happened? Where is Y/N?"

"Y/N died, Clarke. She volunteered for the culling. I'm sorry." Abby could hardly put coherent sentences together. "She said she knows you can love again but-"

"No. No! I can't do this." Clarke shook her head. "I can't do this anymore. I'm too tired. Mom, help." Her voice shook and cracked, "I need Y/N, please."

"My baby, you've grown up too fast. I'm sorry, if there's anything I can do-"

"I need her. Bring her back to me mom." Clarke sobbed out, "I need Y/N."

[bvbyacid-666]

𝔹𝕖𝕝𝕝𝕒𝕞𝕪 ‘𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕜𝕚𝕟𝕘’ 𝔹𝕝𝕒𝕜𝕖

Smut= ☆ Angst=❀ Fluff=♡

Nothing Here Yet...

Created: 20/09/24

Last Updated: n/a

[bluestar019]

I MADE A FALLING IN LOVE PLAYLIST FOR OUR CHEMIST JASPER JORDAN SINCE I CANT FIND ONE IN SPOTIFY AND I WANT TO SHARE IT!!!!

[xxplastic-cubexx]

i am beyond serious

bonus:

[ato-dato]

*genders your bent*

[kruegerspillow]

accidentally finding out that simon riley is ticklish during sex, though the way he reacted wasn't too... expected. buuuuut it's not like you hated the outcome you got from him <3

MINORS DNI. NSFW BENEATH THE CUT!

Simon's hands roamed around your body, taking in every curve as you squirmed helplessly on his lap. Your hands gripped on his shoulders, seeking more friction as you grinded down against his clothed crotch. Simon's hips stuttered in response to your move.

"So fuckin' needy, aren't ya?" Simon groaned out, his voice low and filled with desperation.

You huffed in response, nearly rolling your eyes at his words before your hands made their way to the hem of his shirt. Simon grunted, helping you lift his shirt up.

"Simon... Need'ya so bad. I need to feel you, please..." You pleaded.

And before you knew it, he was knuckles deep into your cunt. His thick fingers curled inside you, feeling the way your pussy clenched hungrily around his digits. Simon laughed softly out of amusement, watching the way you arched your back. Your hands shot up to his shoulders, seeking balance.

"I got ya, don't worry, yeah? 'm here for ya, lovie." He whispered soothingly.

"Simon, I'm gonna..."

"Fuck, yeah? Let go f'me, c'mon, give yourself in."

You nearly whined at his words, feeling yourself tipping over the edge as his fingers worked faster. Tears swelled up in your eyes before you squeezed them shut, feeling yourself squirt all over him, leaving your juices dripping down his lower abdomen.

Simon watched quietly, slowing down the pace as he felt you slump against his chest, your arms falling back to your sides. His free hand wrapped around your waist, a silent gesture of protection.

"Fuuuck, would ya take a look at the mess ya made? Look at tha' sweet'eart." He mumbled softly, looking down at the mess on his stomach.

Your vision blurred as you glanced at the mess, feeling your cheeks heat up in embarassment. Fuck, your mind felt hazy. The orgasm hit you harder than a brick, and you knew only Simon could leave this effect on you.

And, as soon as you gathered your composure, your hands went back to his chest. Simon's eyes softened at the sight of you, watching as you undo his belt. You swiftly threw his belt aside, propping yourself on top of him before looking up at him. Simon got the signal and lifted his hips up, gaze piercing as you pulled his pants down.

There was a small stain on his boxers already, having leaked precum ever since he buried his fingers into your puffy cunt. Simon groaned as you pulled his boxers down, the cold air hitting his painfully hard cock.

"Wait, sweet'eart—"

You slammed down on his cock, feeling him twitch inside you before he arched his back off of the couch. His breath hitched as you watched him tremble beneath you. He groaned out in response, throwing his head back onto the couch before his hands shot up to your waist; making sure you don't lose balance.

"Simon, I— fuck I cant help it, need... need you inside me..." You slurred out, tripping over your own words.

Simon's chest rose up and down, trying to catch his breath before he lifted his head up. His gaze met yours, all hazy and fucked out of his mind. Your hands stayed on his chest for a moment, before you slowly ran your fingers down.

"Christ, you feel fuckin' heavenly, I— fuckin' 'ell..."

Simon shivered beneath you, letting out a shaky breath as he watched your hand skillfully caress the roughness of his skin. Your fingers softly traced over his scars, feeling the way he jerks every once in a while. Once your hands reached his abdomen, you slowly traced the sides of his waist.

"Not there sweet'eart, I—" The words caught in his throat as you continued teasing his waist.

A small, nervous laugh left his lips as one of his hands shot up to your wrist, trying to get your hands off of his waist. You noticed it. The way his cheeks heated up whenever your hands roamed around his waist, the way he seemed to hold the small laughter that threatened to come out of his mouth. He's ticklish.

"Bloody 'ell, not— not there," he paused for a moment. "Don't play these kind of games on me, love, fuck please." He begged softly, his cock hardening inside you.

And, that's when you felt it.

His hips stuttered before he cummed inside you, merely because of a simple touch. A small wheeze left his lips, feeling himself come undone just like that. Your eyes widened as you watched him rut his hips through his orgasm. A small, amused yelp left your lips before you moaned softly. He'd never been this sensitive before. His hand dropped from your wrist.

"Fuck!" He groaned out, feeling his whole body tremble beneath you.

Shit, you know damn well you're far from over now.

kruegerspillow © 2024 ➵ do not feed my work into ai, repost or translate my work. Reblogs are much appreciated ୨ৎ

[acid-ixx]

ch.5 pt 1: again &. again (platonic! yandere batfam x neglected! gn reader)

directory: preq, chapter one, chapter two, chapter three, chapter four, chapter five pt 1,

read until the end for an author's note.

tw: self-esteem issues, typical implications of trauma and emotional neglect, allusions to self-harm.

you had always been a good kid.

you didn't have a consistent a plus, and you most certainly don't always win awards, let alone shower in a streak of gold medals and thick paper announcing your spot as first place. you're not the picture-perfect kid aunties will brag about and compare their other children to. you're not always refined, as a child born into the streets of gotham, bound to be rough around the edges—

but you were good.

and your momma always told you every night, in her hushed whispers and cuddling arms, after her sweet lullabies harmonizing with the hums of your broken fan, that it's alright if you're not the greatest; as long as you're good.

she taught you manners, to always respect everyone around you, your elders, strangers, even children your age, because blessings always come in the form of good faith if you're kind.

you believe her, of course you do, she's the only person you had in your life, the only person you needed. you should've never desired for anything else; what else could you wish for if not her love and presence only?

she's enough for you, and you're enough because she tells you too, with her siren-like eyes softening when she gazes at you with only love encrypted in her eyes, her once seductive smile plastered all over wanted posters now beaming with joy at having you in her arms rather than inauthentic pursuits of attracting men around her.

you always followed through with her words, because you love her and it's no doubt that she loved you more than enough too, too much that she had to continue on with her prostitute lifestyle to provide for your little family, too much that it was the reason why she had to be killed off in the first place.

because of her, you chose to be kind, you chose to lower yourself, to never raise your voice higher than those around you, to be humble, and to never show when you're at your limit, even to others closest to you other than your mother.

you remember so little of her the more you age, you grasp on straws just reminiscing on every moment spent with her.

"a good kid," she says, her voice almost a tantalizing memory threatening to drift away, "won't finish first, but fate will always make sure that they never finish last. so choose to be good, alright, baby?"

"yes, momma," your reply came in curtly, tiny fingers playing with the ends of her hair, without moment's hesitation, or doubt in the meaning of her words.

because her words are god for someone like you, because she is your mother who always knew what's best—

because she is your mother, and you may not like her for who she is as a person, for all the wrongs she did in the past before throwing it all away to raise you; but you love her either way, and follow whichever path she leads you to like a little duckling...

a good kid doesn't finish first, but they'll eventually get what they always wanted, right?

even if they wait for weeks, months, years; fate will find a way...

so why can't you have you have what he have right now?

why, just why, are you always finishing last?

why can't you receive the same attention tim did when he was first introduced?

elegant, poised, a rich boy with millionaire parents who had so much to spend, standing proudly and confidently at the doorstep of the manor, as if he had already belonged the moment he stepped foot into the staircase. thirteen year old, older and taller than you, better than you.

the memory is still clear as day, because it was the same day you had bothered alfred to update you on your offer to hang outside in the gardens with your father, only for the butler to look down at you with the same sympathetic eyes and tired smile, retelling you in his familiar excuse that bruce is busy.

'papa is busy,' the words echo in your brain in a mocking tandem, you wish to bang your head on the kitchen's mahogany doors at another attempt rejected. you wish to rip at your hair like you always do. but you can't, you just can't because alfred is in the same room as you, aged hands patting the delicate strands atop your head. you feel disappointment, you always do, then it's shame; shame because it's always alfred who has to witness your bated breaths and spilling tears at another day wasted alone—!

shame because this always happens, it's like bruce never wanted you in the first place; he probably doesn't even think you exist.

but of course, your young brain reasons, your father's always busy when it comes to you, only you.

his timetable consists of mourning his dead son, handling wayne enterprises and juggling his philanthropist career. when will you ever be worth enough that he places you in the same pedestal as all his other obligations?

and back then, you thought every night he spends missing are nights spent with multiple women— back when you've not known of his identity.

yet the point stands still, his missions do not relate to whatever situation stands before you now.

why?

why is it him to who answers the door to tim, the young boy's piercing blue eyes looking up at your father in a challenging gaze? whilst you stand, restlessly in a corner at the scene that unfolds before you. why is it him, who at first makes bruce hesitate, yet still take in the boy holding the camera, hand on his back to guide him inside, as the boy speaks cryptic words you couldn't fathom as you watch behind arch of the living room?

your blood curdles, heart starts to pound out if its gilded cage, and you feel your body buzzing in pure, unadulterated envy, the sole emotion you feel clawing its way into your vision; you see green, you can't see anything else but the scene before you. shaky breaths, blurry vision, balance barely stable as alfred could only offer a pat on your back and his pitying gaze on you.

no words, not even comfort, the manor seems dark again, everything feels as if it's closing into your body and devouring you whole.

why, why, why?

the questions circulate, the memories resurface all the time at just how easy it was for tim, just how he didn't even need to beg to have your father, yes, your father to keep his eyes on a boy whom he have only spoken once in his lifetime.

tim doesn't need alfred to relay a message, he doesn't even need to hesitate being in the same room as the man who seems always a mile away from you, who could never look down even when your fingers come up to fiddle with the cuffs of his sleeves, just like how you did with your mother's hair, all in the name of getting him to see you.

but you're not tim, you're perfect, you never will be.

it hurts, everything hurts when a stranger, someone like tim had the opportunity to talk to bruce, you never had any—!

even if you're always good, even if you always tried to succeed in your academics, your extracurriculars, your everything, even if you always try...

... the moment timothy jackson drake stepped into the manor, the moment his shining blue eyes, almost twinkling like yours when you've been first introduced, stared analytically at the man you called father, was the moment it piqued his interest; was the moment you knew that being good doesn't equate getting what you always wanted:

the attention of a father who chose to cope with grief in another new robin partner instead.

to be bruce's child first, rather than an afterthought later.

ever since then, ever since tim came into the picture, it was harder to gain bruce's attention. even alfred was divided between you and your seemingly divine... brother who just decided to take your place, who will soon be bruce's third child, erasing your name off of his memory.

being good was not enough, being great didn't even compare— your mother's words seemed easily overshadowed by the gnawing jealousy at just how wonderful your new brother is, at just how similar he is in regards to bruce, but different and also infinitely better than you.

it was the first crack in your fragile, glass heart after it had been wrapped in thousands of bandages from the heartbreak of your mother, it was the first rip at the seams at the already lacerated wounds that emotional neglect has left you.

from the days, weeks, months, you couldn't recall, trying to form some sort of interaction with bruce, dick and now even tim, instead of having alfred be your medium of communication.

from the cold, rainy nights spent with just your thin blankets and fading memories of your mother to soothe you from the nightmares that relishes in your fear.

imagining what it's like having your father speak words of assurances in a dull, almost alien-like tremor (you've never even heard his voice up close before...) comforted you at first, but now it became thousands of hushed whispers wishing you were never born in the first place if it meant your trepidation would end.

and it would've been better, the dread that buzzes restlessly under your skin could've been satiated if tim had even the decency to acknowledge your presence. but just like bruce, god, just like dick who had easily accepted the smart, academically talented boy as his own sibling— you're still amounted to nothing to be even considered worthy.

good, but not enough, not worth the effort of being greeted every morning, not worth the time spending small talks with. even dick, the athlete who once promised to ditch some patrols in bludhaven in passing moment's as an excuse to swat you away, have now opted to bother the newest addition to the family, forgetting that it was you who idolized him the most—

even if it was tim who met him at the carnival first, before dick's parents had died, going as far to dedicate the entire act for the boy— it was you watching him through the broken down television too, legs swinging back and forth on your springy, dusty couch as you doodle him doing stunts, talking to you because he meant the world to you too after you realized he was considered a brother to you.

tim met him first, yet you did so too, but as his younger sibling instead...! so it's unfair, it's unfair, everything is so unfair. tim and his stupid fucking goals of helping your father cope, your father, not his, his parents are alive, your mother is gone, goddamnit—!

it's all unfair. your mother says the world treats good kids like you right, so why...?

... what else could he want? what else does he want to take away from you?

and how could you blame him...?

he was perfect in the sense that you aren't. he was what bruce needed: a reliable pillar of support, stubborn enough to deal with the stress piling up with the loss of his second child, qualities that couldn't be seeked in you even if anyone tries their hardest to squint past that once wide-eyed, vulnerable exterior of yours.

all they could see is a broken child, but not of their own. they could offer you sympathy, pity at just how terrible your past came to be, but that's what every child of gotham goes through. not even witnessing your mother's last gulps of breath would be unique enough to pique their attention. they couldn't possibly see you being part of their family, never.

you learn quickly, that the world has always been unfair, that sometimes, your mother's words aren't always right, not always the best. you need to be better than best, but you couldn't.

so you still chose to be good still, because what else could you do? who else could your identity be outside of the morals she had taught you?

that's who you always are—

that's who you always will be.

always the lesser one. always the forgotten muse and the unspoken poetry.

because that's what good people are, always belittling themselves for others, always allowing the bigger people to step on them like ants. to crush on their hopes and dreams like the crumbs of bread that spill onto the sides of a pavement.

tim is a good person, it was why he wanted to help bruce in the first place, but you couldn't also forget the fact that he's the perfect son for bruce too— that's the main difference between you both. you're worlds apart. he's naturally smart, almost flawless both physically and mentally, and helps slowly but surely fill the hole in bruce's heart unlike you who realizes that you'll only deepen it instead.

and you're a good kid, you're his good child, you wish you were his kid.

you're kind but never the greatest, talented but not good enough.

and that's who you'll always will be.

just a person defined by their worth, by the words of their mother. just a kid with nothing more than a smile to offer, no matter how strained the side of your lips are, no matter if the tears threaten to crawl out your eyes like spiders the longer your presence get ignored—

you're good, but you'll never be good enough.

... so what made you better now? what made you worthy now that all their eyes are now on you?

you wish it was easy to answer, but life's always unfair to a good kid like you.

has anyone ever noticed why the wayne manor has been so dull lately?

why don't the blooms stand so prideful in the gardens nowadays? surely, alfred's green thumb could fix the problem, but it's been months and the most eminent scent that fixes upon their nostrils could only be obtained if they sniff hard enough to smell fresh flowers amongst the scent of mud after rain or wet concrete.

why does titus seem so down these days? damian tried to play tricks with him; his beloved pet only replied with a loud, high-pitched whine in reply and lay languidly at velvet carpets with a bone on his slack jaw. his owner noticed how his tail seemed to wag less the more the days passed by. and damian isn't stupid, but he notices how titus, with the addition of alfred the cat, would often frequent sniffing and lay on a spot damian's familiar with; one he's sure a certain rival of his would only sit upon whenever they'd hide from him.

why have there been fewer homemade baked treats in the pantry? hell, they seem to lessen every single day someone opens the pantry. wasn't it alfred who baked them? was there a thief who had been stealing, or was the steady decline not mere coincidence? nobody else took a hobby to baking, since they've all been frequently absent, prioritizing their patrols and mostly taking the cookies and crinkles at the end of their shift, munching on the treats all for themself. alfred hasn't definitely been taking a break and refuses any offers to, yet the lack of goods was noticable, and whenever alfred bakes, it doesn't quite share the same sugary, or savory goodness the past deserts have been sporting.

why has there been silence, one that so ominous, for months? dick swore he'd often hear someone conversing through doors with alfred. at first he assumed it would be tim, or cass, but with how feeble and meek the voice was, yet talkative and light with an accent he's sure he heard from bruce. yet he dismissed the implication of another presence in the room. but as of current, he misses that strange voice that speaks of stories about highschool drama and friends for terrible influences.

has the rooms been lacking of music lately? tim frequents the soft, buzzing hums his hyperactive form hears from across the living room or near the fireplace's burning embers. sometimes he'd be lulled to sleeping whenever he hears specific melodies. he'd listen so often that he even managed to recognize his favorite tunes with just a single note, eyes slowly closing every time he's in close proximity with that unknown voice, conditioned to finally sleep like a pavlovian dog. tim has been losing sleep these days, eyebags frequent in his eyes. he misses the music, he misses his only saving grace during restless nights with even energy drinks and bitter coffee being ineffective.

why has the dust been collecting off the bookshelves of their library? whenever jason visits the library, there would always be fingerprints he'd find on certain books, one he'd pick up and come to enjoy reading. some were collections of series, others being short novels. the ghost that graces him these recommendations, who sometimes even brings new books, hasn't been in the library for months now, and he's skittish the more he visits the manor each time. the library was his sanctuary for all the moments he'd have fights with bruce, or felt too deep into his traumatic anguishes. the tastes he shares with this lone stranger who visits the library at different lapses than him was now gone, and he's noticed the anger that pangs deep in his chest every damn time dust has been collected off of books, with no fingerprint in sight.

just, why has it been so silent lately? both physically and figuratively. no music dawns their ears, no hinge of the fridge being heard throughout the night, or at least the faint mutters of an unknown whispering.

these were all unsaid questions buried deep in the minds of the people under the roof of the manor. now the only things they could feel were the heavy knocks of the rain on the window and the cold sensation of tiled floors on their already covered soles.

it wasn't noticable by chance, but it could be felt by everyone, both inhabitants and visitors.

and the answers lie simple: it's a secret.

they're the deals you make when you want someone to keep their mouth shut close, they're the things you swear your life to to never confess upon. they're the unsaid statements which helped torment a certain child under the roof of an already lonely and ghostly manor.

sometimes, secrets don't take in the form of someone making one up, but rather, it takes in the form of an unspoken agreement, a pact with your surroundings, an untold promise with nature or the things around you.

you were never particularly secretive with your talents, for arts, baking, or anything that takes in the field of creativity. you kept to yourself, and don't bother anymore to annoy your family to look upon a sketch only to be dismissed, or to taste the treats you hide by a pantry for later consumption; but you loved it still whenever alfred gave you the creative liberty to stroll around the manor to decorate the bleak place into a less melancholic version of a gothic abandoned house by the forest, left with only the legacy of a long-standing family.

it was just, you never find it necessary to tell anyone why there's a charcoal portrait of alfred hanged in one of the uncrowded hallways, or why the colors of the walls change momentarily, or why certain colors of flowers were more present by the garden than other colors— so maybe you could consider that a secret.

and it made you feel less lonely, if even by a fraction. yet you don't know it, but your acts of service to the manor was what made the family enjoy their stay a bit longer, was what made them appreciate the backdrop of a new wallpaper they had thought alfred had chosen, or find the designs of resin furniture adorable.

you don't know it, but you were what made mundane living enjoyable for those who seek to relish in the sheer feeling of adrenaline instead.

when you were first taken into the manor, you were the reason why all their senses were stimulated. tiny, malnourished you couldn't keep your toes in place once you've been exposed to a new, more bigger environment.

back then, the manor carried this atmosphere of darkness, a reflection of bruce wayne's grief after his beloved parents' passing away from his arms. yet you took that pain, and turned it from its bleak, grayish colors, to an intimate, fluorescent glow. a soft, bright light emits from one of the random rooms, with custom-made beads dangling about and glow in the dark stickers that litter the room. it was one not too blinding to the eyes, and felt warm like the touch of a mother to their crying child.

your cooking of sweet treats were the ones they often like to fight over. it was through alfred's secret recipes he bestowed upon you, and your own alterations for your baking, that the kitches would always smell of cinnamon, brown butter, and caramelized sugar. it was because of you that you made the manor smell sweeter, more homey, like what would've smelled of an apartment during christmas eve. you've made them associate the kitchen with both famous, foreign, and local recipes that they came to love. steph loved it whenever she'd stumble upon a cookie decorated with purple, cass finds the ribbons on some cupcakes cute, associating it with ballet.

every time bruce, tim, or dick needs a place to destress, they often visit rooms with sweet humming or the occasional singing. it was sometimes gibberish, others with lyrics, yet pleasing to their ears all the same. it reminds them of their mothers' singing, whenever they'd knit or praise their precious jewelry. it makes bruce's stiff posture slacken, finding that odd voice sometimes sharing his talking habits through the lyrics they sang. dick would always sing along, feeling as if he was back in time with his mother playing with his hair as she sings circus music, and tim would close his tired eyes, laying his head on his hand as he dreams pleasant scenarios for once in his life.

although you never once felt any of their embrace, they've certainly felt yours in their hearts, minds, and sometimes even their body; a spiritual connection they've felt with you without even knowing it. the last time damian touched you was when he pinned your wrists to your side. and even if he tried his hardest to ignore the raging beat of his heart, screaming at him to release you from the tight cage of his grip, he refuses to. out of sheer anger and petty spite, or the desire to feel the skin of his sibling who struggles to let go from his hold, he doesn't know. but he certainly does remember how your palms lack callouses unlike his does, and how warm your touch felt, even if blazing with cold sweat from his threats.

he had remembered the smell of your sweat and even the taste of your tears by accident and committed it to memory.

it was through your indirect care that everyone felt loved and cared for, and find themselves enjoying the sweet, small moments of living within what was once a stuffy manor holding painful memories.

and nobody knows why — with the exception of dick, bruce, and damian now — that despite the batcave being filled with the entire family, it felt empty all the same.

well, not entirely empty, but bleak with color. every hue remained gray in their eyes, the pipe leaks were eminent, heavy breathing was evident all throughout. no music catched on to their ears, and they all remain skittish and rigid.

it seems as if everyone has catched on, that they're all holding their breath together as the leader of the group, batman, looks around to do a silent head count.

after all, he told both dick and damian to update the family that this meeting is urgent, and no one shall even bother ditching, or else they wouldn't get to the bottom of your disappearance without all the help they could receive.

in a race to get you, they need to burn off all resources or god help bruce because he'd run himself crazy searching for you.

alfred doesn't want that happening, but he understands.

you're important, and no one could dispute that fact. after bruce had gone through your all your diaries, your sketchbooks that he had to pry away from damian's possessive hold, and the box of belongings that you left that he stashed away in his office— he knew he couldn't just leave his child out in the streets of gotham.

you're his child, and a damn child of his means his responsibility. either he likes the obligation or not, it's his duty to protect you from the harm of living in such a dangerous city. and you're certainly not a vigilante, he'd already ran through multiple recent investigations before everyone came rushing down to the batcave to confirm you're not connected with any bad guys; which was good, and bad news.

that means you chose not to undergo the same, dangerous path jason chose, or rebel like damian, yet at the same time you must've been incapable of self defense.

and he knows that even if you fight with normal moves; without his guidance against a gallery of brutal villains out to destroy batman or anyone related to bruce, you're dead meat. bruce doesn't want you dead. the only times he wants to hold you in his arms were the ones unconnected to you laying limp with your last breath, no. he wants you alive, and well, and safe from harm.

his precious baby, his treasure. he wants to see your face in one piece, and he wishes cradle you in his arms. just because you're over eighteen doesn't mean he's fully lost you. he's your father, first and foremost, and your hero second.

that's why it's imperative that everybody follows his orders now, with the primary order being that everyone, under the guise of currently not holding a mission, is required to be in the batcave within the first thirty or forty-five minutes of the announcement. no, there's no excuses that should be said, or buts. this meeting is a priority meeting, and as vigilantes who fight for the safety of their city's citizens, they know not to disobey.

and as family members related to bruce's precious second youngest, it's an obligation for them to care as much as bruce, dick, and even damian does for the search of your disappearance.

though apparently, jason couldn't get that message, and didn't bother to update through comms over where he's at the opposite side of gotham, his devices turned off after he had recently gone off in a rebellious tangent yet again about bruce's refusal to mercilessly slaughter the deserving ones.

he'll lecture his second child soon after he reports to bruce, mentioning your safety on the line while at it, but right now?

right now he needs to address the elephant in the room: the overbearing anxiousness and antsiness everyone collectively feels, bruce's stern eyes replicating the anger, the surge of energy he feels to exact vengeance on every crime that litters the street, the same urgency he felt compelled to drown upon right after his parents have died right in front of him.

whilst alfred's knowing ones stare at each and every one of the culprits of your disappearance, all a direct reason why you had left in the first place.

someone sighs, and it's not bruce who speaks up first amongst the crowd of vigilantes.

"so what now, father? are we all just going to stand here, or are we going to address the main issue? or do you want me to be the one who brings them back home? i wouldn't mind finding them before all of you do."

"this is not the time to be... you, damian, we're all....we all need time to think." it was dick who spoke next, with a sense of urgency, as his eyes that tried his damn best to stare at damian softly, with a smile to accompany it, immediately plasters itself back on his phone, spamming your phone with messages damian was sure were all about him begging for you to take them all back. without any fights, without any hesitation.

ever the pacifist, one would think. but everyone could see wide blue eyes, glinting at the screen. begging for mercy for such a lost case, tears nearly rimming his eyelids, lips bitten raw as blood drips down his quivering chin.

cass could read his movements, she knows he's mad. but not even a master of body language is in need to know just how much dick's rage emanates off his body.

fingers clenched on his phone, teeth gritted as he spoke, eyes frantically searching through messages, scrolling up, then down, as if he's waiting for something. for someone no doubt.

tim deduces that the person they're focused on for this urgent meeting was the same person dick was trying to text. 'must've been related or close to us if it means it's this important for everyone to be involved.'

he'll look through dick's phone later to solve the itching case, his fingers twitching to whip out his side in the batcave's screen and make a new case file.

but he chose to ignore it for now, they all do, each one focusing on their primary worries.

"who's them? wait— what even are we gonna talk about?" duke's voice rang loudly through the cave. it at least broke through the tension, bruce's tense shoulders sagging in relief then suddenly reverting back to its old, rigid pose.

everyone noticed the action. they're trained individuals after all.

barbara flinched through her seat at the sight of the man, with her hands readily available to type at the keyboard. though her eyes stay glued at batman, looking deeper and noticing his fervoured state.

it's as if he is lost in thought.

and with just how much thoughts were racing in his mind, it's easy to drown. to get lost in that mirage of memories trying to link an image of you to anything he tries to remember. even now, bruce wants to see your face first and foremost. he wants to see an image of you sleeping in your tiny, creaking bed, and to erase any of those memories to replace it with new luxuries he could provide you in life; a comfort you should've been blessed with the moment you entered the double doors of his manor.

his string of pearls, his little treasure.

"(name). they left, and i need all of you to listen to me, now. rebuttals later."

when bruce spoke up, gruff and domineering, with no room for anyone to speak back, all eyes were now on him.

dick throws his phone across the room, ignoring the shatter of the pure, aluminum branded back of it. his foot was jittering, and his voice was as ready to command orders with bruce.

blue eyes stare, vicious and hungry, impatient at its prime. with the addition of damian's green, squinted ones, and bruce's stern glare, thundering and clouded.

it was a spectacle to witness the same emotions coursing through their veins. as if they're one and the same; vultures feeding off the feeling of need and urgency to actuate what seems to be an already brewing plan on the trio's part.

the rest, unknowing of what had just occurred half an hour ago within your bedroom, listens.

they ignore the gnawing feeling of intuition, of something, right at this moment, going wrong, just to hear bruce's explanation, with dick and damian butting in.

they listen, fascinated about you being bought up, a name so foreign yet familiar, a mystery in their eyes despite having met or seen you occasionally; a glimpse of you running through hallways or painting in the garden.

they listen, and all the individuals let deep, feral emotions fester within them the longer they allow their ears and their mind to devour the words dick says, all syllables a symphony of praises towards you, each vowel accentuating his favor.

they listen, and learned.

whatever happened within the batcave, is also a secret.

you have your own secrets. they have theirs.

except, yours were discovered, and they choose to let emotions brewing deep in their hearts as obscured within public view.

tim wants to search for you, steph joins in on his sentiment too. barbara's already at it whilst she types and listens in on bruce's words, cass ponders about your invisible presence and just like bruce, tries to think of memories of you stumbling by her, and duke just as much attempts to picture your face and remembers something sentimental; one he'd ponder on later once he's alone.

now they all know your secrets, not everything, but a semblance of it. they discover their neglects, and acknowledge the consequences. why throughout their stirring arguments, they all couldn't find your handmade night-lights that they like to look at during the dark, or smell the baked crusts on your home-made pumpkin pie recipe, or the humming of random music through the halls.

because you've never once visited the batcave—

and it was the only room not graced with your courtesy, care, passions, and love.

they listen to bruce's plan, yet they ignore the growing dread.

they ignore why jason is radio-silent all throughout too.

instead, they focus on you, trying to reminisce on old, buried memories they at least spent with you. good ones, not the ones containing your meek begs, and heartbroken gazes. or the ones where you stood in the corner of a room watching them talk. or the times where you all had dinner together and you're left in the wake of silence despite the chatter filling the dining room.

... and once they couldn't muster anything up, they figured on creating new ones instead.

warm.

this place feels so unnaturally warm, that it seeks shelter under your skin. warm, yet welcoming at the same time.

...where are you?

your bleary eyes slowly open, blinking gradually, squinting out the streaks of white in your vision. it's always a hassle to wake yourself up. sleep has never been peaceful for you: always awoken by nightmares, or tormenting paralysis, sometimes mere insomnia causes you to lay awake and sweating in your tiny room. and your dreams always has to involve your family, one way or another; of course it's always about them, they've been your only source of life despite never being there for yours. but now? now you feel like you've had a complete 9 hour cycle of sleep, with no hint of fatigue in your body.

you've never had any proper sleep. ever since you saw... you saw her dying that it never registers within your mind just how deprived you are of rest, constantly haunted by memories you wish you just could... forget. but you couldn't, not when your beloved mother is the only precious reminder you have in life to stay alive.

your arms, arms that were always sore, in twisted positions, bruised and with faded scars from all the times you felt too impulsed to hurt, the only way to forget the mental torment you've gone through; now lay atop cozy sheets with no pain bared, no extra sheen of sheen on sweat. your fingers stretch, you caress the pillows your head lays on, cold to the touch against your warm, uncrying face.

it feels nice, feels crisp against your skin. your ears don't burn and you don't feel the need to flip your pillow to the colder side.

a yawn slowly escaped your lips. you lick them, they're not chapped, nor dry. they don't feel bitten, nor streaked with blood. you lick again, there's no familiar sting, nor the taste of blood that seeps against cracked skin.

'this is strange.'

you feel unusually relaxed, your breathing's oddly steady. there's no scent of smoke and pollution invading your nostrils, no shadow of doubt cloaking your mind.

you don't feel like dying today.

it feels so nice, the weather's so weird... pleasant. but this? it's not normal, gotham has never felt so quiet today. there has never been a time where you wake up feeling so... human. this is not routine. you're not used to this. god, everything's so strange and yet...

it's been so long since you last felt like you were... home. wispy streaks of particles dance under the soft light that beams outside of crooked, wooden windows. it casts an angelic glow on your surroundings, unlike the shrouded darkness you're accustomed to.

your eyes do a double take, churning mechanically at an angle where you can clearly see the glass panes.

"hm?" windows that always fog up with polluted specks of dust, now clear, and bright as day. it feels like the sun is kissing your skin through the light that enters the glass, you feel the at ease as your bones crack comfortably, and your muscles stretch without ache.

and you...

you're laying in a thick mattress that buries you in deep burgundy sheets. blankets wrapped around your body like a welcoming hug, you're reminded of your mother yet again.

your heart thumps rhythmically, not erratically this time, no— you've never felt so invigorated. it's been a while since you slept in a comfortable bed, in a comfortable setting, with a comfortable atmosphere. not the sound of blades hit your ears, nor the honking of cars, or ringing of phones. wherever you're laying didn't feel stiff like cardboard back in your apartment, the pillowcases are cool to the touch. your clothes don't encase you uncomfortably tight, there's no random thread that persists on irritating your skin.

it feel so oddly peculiar, so comforting, and you want to cry.

you feel light, airy even. there's nothing but the buzz of empty warmth that encapsulates your entire body. you're not used to this, this disgusting feeling of comfort, you don't think it's real.

only one response enters your mind, the only thing you're accustomed to.

'i don't deserve this.' your thoughts drown you into a deep sea of anguish, but the dichotomy of comfort and pain stirs you into satiating confusion. this is the first time you felt blessed, the first time you wish you were good enough to feel like you're worthy of deserving such goodness in your life.

suddenly, you feel like crying, but no tears escape your eyes, and your heart refuses to beat out of its cage. you're in a trance that refuses to release you from its comforting hold.

the hazy tune of birds chirping snaps you out of your deprecating reflection of your life.

when you squint and look out the windows once more, you make out a faint reflection of green, dominating the entire view second floor view of what is supposed your home.

for the first time, you don't feel fear reminiscing on that earthly shade of color.

you're in a... forest.

your nose picks up on the scent of the damp, green, grasslands. your eyes makes out the scenery outside, droplets of water slowly dripping on tall leaves, the rivulets travelling from blades of leaves to nourished, wet soil. it produces this stimulating smell, one you haven't been able to experience for months living in the polluted air outside the windows of your apartment.

petrichor.

you don't know what, or how, or why this is happening.

all you know is common knowledge, something perceived through senses and observations. you're in a cottage, yes, the interior layout is filled with personal trinkets you know you would've bought with money if you even had it, and furniture suited to both you tastes and your mother's... but otherwise, nothing else.

other than memories of a fantasy you shared with your mother, back when you were innocent to the cruelty of the world, of gotham and its merciless passions.

"XX/XX/XXXX, entry no. 23.

i remember one conversation i had with my mother.

it was about something related to where would we choose to live if we had the choice. she asked me that, out in the random, and that took me by surprise to say the least.

huh, during that time, i never knew her intentions for my answers.

i answered her sincerely, told her that, well, i wanted to live in a comfortable cottage, with two floors and a spacious bedroom for me, with hers right beside mine; so she can keep all the monsters away when i got too scared living by my own.

i wanted fairy lights strewn on the roof of my room, and matching glow in the dark stickers of stars and constellations with hers, just like the ones we have in our quaint apartment. i told her it wouldn't be complete without the mini figurines on top of raspberry colored cabinets, the ones that i loved to collect whenever we thrifted at stores, and most importantly the picture frames of us together.

she giggled at my reply, and told me it was such a 'me' thing to choose what i had said. but i retorted and told her she'd choose the same thing. and she said i said what exactly was on her mind.

thinking about that memory now, i feel warm despite the fact that bruce forgot to attend another parent-teacher conference again this week. every memory of my mother... tugs at my heart, both painful and nostalgic. i miss her.

if my momma was here, she wouldn't even hesitate to pull out of whatever side hussle she had for a job at the first second i'd mention something about my school. she always prioritizes me as her only child. it makes me feel special, and loved, and cared for— i haven't felt that in a long time. i won't lie that alfred's presence helps but a mother's love precedes all essence.

i love her so much. i wish i never took her for granted.

now that i think about it too...

if my momma was here, we could've been in that cottage right now, living our lives, carefree, without nothing to worry us. whether it'd be food in our plates or money to pay the bills. we'll always be happy with mushroom foraging and sitting by the warm fireplace i pictured, with her homemade hot chocolate by the table. she'd be nestled beside me, keeping me warm. that's enough to make me happy, enough to dismiss the heaviness in my heart as i write this.

i wish we were at that cottage right now, forever actually. i don't need a big family, all i need is my mom. and sure we'll have some arguments along the way but it wouldn't be as bad as, well, damian threatening to draw his sword on me and stab me at the heart every second i made him mad, which is always...

funny thing is... fuck, i never noticed how she was saving up money and starving herself whilst simultaneously keeping me well-fed so she could pursue my dreams of actually getting a cottage. i was so oblivious to everything that i just, i never noticed that she was earning all this, to build my dreams, so we can escape from gotham and live new lives with each other by our side.

she was doing all this, for the sake of my comfort, my happiness, my everything. she lives her life with no breaks, and retired from her previous job as a... sex worker just so i can live normally, so i wouldn't be ashamed of being her child, of seeing her as my mother. she was everything i needed in my life. she sacrificed, and i took it for granted.

and i wanted to scold her so badly; doing this for such a lost cause as me. it hurts to think about it now.

so what if i wanted a cottage? what about it if i'm now living with my father, huh? i don't care about living comfortably at all, if that meant i didn't have mother by my side, to support me, to actually love me, then what is a house all worth for??? all i wanted and needed was her, just her. and they took me away from my mother.

my mother.

your heart breaks at the seems whilst you write that faithful night, the grip on your pen near to leaving dents on your finger. if it draws out blood, then so be it. your handwriting turns unintelligible, strokes not knowing where to end. what once was clean, white sheets of paper now crumpled by your despair, by the tears that escaped your eyes, by your fists balling at the paper, all your emotions boiling down to mere grief.

if bruce mourns for jason, you do so too for your mother.

yet you continue to write, and write, and write. it's the only medium of comfort you have, the only means to treasure memories long gone, heartaches and comfort all a coagulation of your retreat to the real world.

if dreams can come true, then you wish the fantasies of your mother being with you comes alive, that she'd be by your side, taking your pen away from your hands, kissing your sweaty forehead and matted tresses, assuring you she's fine. she'll smile with crinkling eyes, and set your quivering hands to a stop, then wrap you in her arms, shielding you away from the burden of living without her.

if you were her flower, then she is your hearth. the only warmth you'd feel in such a cold manor, the only one capable of dipping her hands into your chest, taking your beating heart, and melting off the frigid locks that kept your love in place ever since her death.

only then can you say that dreams do come true, only then can you rest; close your eyes without praying for a dreamless slumber, without nightmares, without swords piercing your body, or the dismissive turn of your family's back on you.

but if dreams do come true, what does that say about nightmares?

only reality can tell.

or you can tell.

at you current state, seated restless on your tiny room with barely any illuminated moonlight guiding your tired body, tormented by both past and future, writing endlessly on journals soon to be forgotten— wouldn't that be considered a nightmare? to be subjected upon unwanted isolation, from the very same people who promised their lives to protect lives such as yours.

your family, your father, brothers and sisters. through empty promises alone; all enough to destroy you inside out.

talentless, worthless, out of place.

yet even if your diaries were all torn apart, pages seeping with both blood and tears, you still write.

you write, and you continue through your endeavors. what once were fond memories were the same monsters chasing you through barren halls and empty rooms.

after all, it's the only way to honor her passing, even if it kills you all the same.

you continue, wiping at your sullen cheeks, and brushing away ripped strands of hair; pen inseparable from stubborn, swollen fingers.

now i'm living here, in this big manor, with nothing going on for me. i have alfred, and he's like a father figure right after mom, but it doesn't change anything... it doesn't change the grief i feel, the sorrow, the unwaning depression. nothing. i couldn't even get myself to stand up from bed because i'm so fed up with everything.

if i didn't try so hard in the first place, i would've never been left this destroyed.

i want to give up, i want to die and just disappear off the face of earth. no one would notice, and at least after i die, i would be reunited with her— but I can't. why?

i have to remind myself everyday. i just can't give up and let all her efforts go to waste. she doesn't want me dying, earlier than her age, too. she told me i couldn't just let go so easily, that life is beautiful if you try to find its hidden beauty. i'm still trying to find meaning in all her wise words, i can't just take her honor for granted, especially since i know that despite everything, she has her own anguish and regrets.

does she regret having me?

right now, i feel a spark of motivation. she's been saving up, just for me, and i want to honor her memories at least. if i can't feel like home in this manor, then i'll make myself a home. to honor her, and to build upon both our dreams.

i don't know when, or how i could even engage in this impossible goal. but for momma? i'll do anything for her, even if it means working myself to death. because at least that means proof that i tried, and she'll be proud of me in the afterlife. god, i hope she would be.

we'll get that cottage soon, momma. i promise."

thinking about it now, that was ten entries right after your breakdown during your birthday. it was at a period of time where you fully accepted that you'd never be loved by your family, that you never belonged, and matured just as quickly after taking a break from writing self destructive diaries.

you sigh, looking down at your clenched palms and indenting fingers on skin. you really wish she was here. it could've made everything better, you would've been better if she was by your side.

a knock ensures before your door, and that alone snaps you out of your thoughts. you jump in shock yet feel no pang of panic in your heart, but before you could reach out to defend yourself, the door opens after the prior knock, and your...

your mother enters.

angelic, glowing, beautiful.

she's decorated in a white dress, with a pearl necklace decorating her neck, glinting like diamonds, soft in its assertion. like an angel, rather than the devil she's portrayed to be in the newspapers she hid from you.

she looks beautiful, as always, breath-taking to the point it makes you wonder how you share the same genes as her.

but her beauty now precedes her beauty from when you last saw her bleeding in the cold tiles of your apartment. now, she looks old, yet ethereal. wrinkles flecked her skin, her eyes drooped at the lids, her hairs displayed streaks of white in some areas.

you've never seen her like this.

she had you very young, and you've lost her young. yet she looks as she's rebirthed now, living yet aging like fine wine.

she is happy, and content with her smile, and looks at you with a radiant grin, smile marks on her sunken cheeks, like you mean the world, walking towards your seated form as she hugs you weakly, yet lovingly.

warm, like the spring's gentle blooms, like the feel of petals rubbed against your fingertips.

you're caught breathless.

"momma...?"

beauty that is true, that is honest, and speaks of history. beyond the barriers of photos you see in her at her prime, when she was known as a 'man-eater', a lustful creature that steals from rich to survive.

you've never lied when you said your mother is always going to be the most beautiful woman in the world.

at least, in your eyes. because if she objectively was, then your father could've, should've stayed with her, for the sake of his pride and reputation at the very least. he could've had her by his side, even through a loveless marriage, if it meant it ensured her safety.

you dismiss the bitterness the brews inside you, and opted to focus at the strange, yet welcome circumstances beforehand.

your hands find a way to wrap around her crouched figure, fingers lingering on the once sinewy bones of her spine, now healthy even through the sagging skin.

"my baby..." you look up at her, her hands holding your head so tenderly, cradling you side to side.

"momma..." she kisses your forehead, then both your cheeks, and takes a seat beside you. when she did, you felt a surge of energy and warmth burst throughout both your body and heart. for once, you felt giddy, solitary confinement all but a dream in this fantasy land.

you don't let her hands go for even a second, fearing this moment will be taken away from you. there's warmth emanating off the fingers intertwined with yours, you wish this moment never ends.

the questions that almost left your silken throat took hesitation. you just can't ask why she's alive, where you are and why you're here in the first place; for fear she'll be taken away from you, that you couldn't see her beyond the conjured and brief memories you had of her.

you wish to cry once again, this time, you let out a small hiccup and feel saliva bundling on the back of your mouth. she hums in resounding worry, her other hand swiping away at the hair covering your wide eyes. the softness in her eyes doesn't falter, and she hums a familiar lullaby: one that triggers nostalgia, that reminds you of the days spent without electricity in your tiny apartment with her lighting a candle just so she could read you another one of your favorite stories, huddled beside her.

the last you've heard of her voice, it was parched and inaudible. she always sacrificed for you, and drinkable water was a privilege in the shady parts of gotham.

"you're probably wondering where you are and why we're here, aren't you, sunshine?" she cuts her singing off abruptly, your eyes snap open to look up at her through your eyelashes.

"... y-yeah," your reply comes in, voice barely whisper. unsure and insecure of where this conversation will go, you chose to bury your head in her shoulder. she smells of ripe strawberry and cherries, unlike the mixture bold perfumes mixed with the stench of booze she comes home with after another night of restless endeavor. yet you don't acknowledge the memories of the past, you're here with her now and it's all that matters.

"where are we, mom? am i... dreaming? please, i- i miss you." this time, your tears come out in a steady stream, but your throat doesn't constrict in itself, and you don't feel the urge to rip at your hair at anymore.

now you're just terribly sentimental rather than bitter. no more was the jealousy that aches, or the panic rushing through your veins. it's just you and your mother, and the memories of her passing that buries you at the hilt of your sadness.

"well... you're in the realm between life and death, my little angel," she states with lidded eyes, as if it is a matter of fact. her hands move to scratch your scalp, she hums and swings your crying body side to side, akin to a mother cradling her newborn baby.

you felt particularly reborn, the sudden change affecting you more than you'd like to admit. the light outside your window casts her in a sheen of white, glimmering like rays of the sun, or like the twinkle of the moon.

even if she was old, and grey and wrinkly, she's always been ethereal.

and you're convinced that she's the angel instead.

"you've been through a lot, haven't you?" her questions brought you out of your tearful stupor, she brings her lips to kiss at your forehead and wraps her palms on the sides of your face, wiping away at the waterworks refusing to cease.

all you could do was nod, and feel the warmth reflecting off her body, transferring all to you. even in the plane of death has she always been generous.

"i-i... i don't want this to end, momma..." you utter, gazing at her ever-smiling face. there was a faint translucency in her body, as if her form is slowly disappear. and for a second, you feel fear that she'll disappear. fear that dissipates just as quickly when you hear her heavenly chuckles.

"...baby, i'm here with you right now in because i want to remind you to choose the path to live. it's too early to die right now, it's too early for my baby to join me in the afterlife." her words are too complicated to comprehend with how muddled your thoughts were, her saccharine actions feel like a forbidden touch, and you just couldn't comprehend why, just why does she want you to live...

when there's nothing else left for you in the realm where she's not around.

"but i... i don't understand...? why can't, why can't i be with you, mom—?"

"because unlike me, baby, you have so much to do. i've nothing left of me to offer when i died, baby... at least now, at least you'll find that you're still always loved, even when i'm not with you."

she cuts you off with a hush, pinching your cheeks before another wave of tears and quivering hiccups escape your befuddled body.

but you can't afford to let her go a second time, you can't go back—!

you don't want to be back in that damning structure you call a manor, you don't want to watch your father from a mere corner shrouding himself in the pits of darkness you know you couldn't carry, you don't want to return to begging for dick's attention as he turns a blind eye, you don't want the pitiful stares from tim when he's in the same room as you, or duke, cass, and steph's hushed whisper whenever you pass by, plans being made without your knowledge, without acknowledgement of your presence. you don't want to be blamed by damian for even being born in the first place. you don't want anymore uncelebrated and silent birthdays anymore, or milestones celebrated with just a fucking cupcake and a pat on your head...!

you want your mom, you don't want your other family, not anymore...

even if... even if your disappearance paved the way for a new shift in interests in your family's mind, even if you're now unknowingly the center of attention after months of the manor's solitude without you; just like you had always wanted— you're tired, and you've long since given up and grown from selfish and unrealistic desires of a completely healthy family.

if you could even call them that wretched title.

if you could even consider them as one like how they never did you.

the tears return just like the pain you were temporarily barred from, now it's a waterfall that threatens to throw you off of your escape from the reality of life, stinging your eyes and falling on crumpled sheets as your fingers grip uncontrollably for a sanction of control. from what? from the fear that now is the moment that you'll truly never see her again, not even in your memories.

"... momma, please, stay—!"

but right before you could reason out, desparate words crawling and jumping out your heaving chest and into the spiraling room, right before you could beg her to stay closer with you with her flickering warmth for just a second further as her body slowly dissipates from her hold on you, as your vision darkens and you hear that faint, familiar murmur of gotham's bustling motorcycles and alleyway screaming—

her last words, full of assurances, just like the day she tucked you in that little closet and made you promise that you'd stay silent for her, sacrificing her life just so she could protect you; it grounds you into your spot, restless, broken, and chasing unsaid words to tell her before you lose her once more, and destroys any and all hope for complete, and utter happiness you forced yourself to truly believe.

"... i love you, my sweet angel. be good for me, alright...?"

and just like that, your eyes blearily open to find itself into a completely foreign surrounding yet again.

and this time, it is real and unwanted.

'jason todd, a good soldier,' were the words marked and engraved on his tombstone. buried under the healthy soils of the manor, he felt as if his presence was forgotten all the same.

it was true, he was a good soldier. always obedient, always listening and mirroring bruce's orders, even though he grew up in the ratty streets with a drug-addicted mother and an abusive father, when he was picked up by bruce and lead into the vigilante life with the beaming potential to combat even dick; jason was always the good kid, who, even if he became a tad bit rebellious on the years garnering on teenage life, died honorably for the safety of his biological mother who betrayed him.

jason todd, always the boy portrayed as a warning sign for all the future robins, always the child remembered as just that: a soldier of batman, the kid of bruce who died unfairly; the truth of his death, the truth of joker's fucked up foil to destroy the bat's mentality even further all for a good laugh, hidden beneath restricted case files and bruce's suppressed emotions— all left unattended, just for him to be replaced by another new robin; a telltale signal that felt like bruce was trying so hard to repair the broken fixtures jason left behind.

the implication itself felt as if the world is laughing at his heroic acts, never acknowledged beyond the faults that lie on his stubbornness; a learnt trait all robins grew into once they've been taken in bruce's care.

he must've never been a good kid if life decided to take him away, when his youth was at an all time high, when all he wanted to do was meet his real mother, and to save her even when she had left him to die with explosives laid beside his beaten body.

was it his fault that all he ever wanted to do was to make his father proud? what was wrong with being a hero, being robin with his magical passions?

jason was never the spiteful man everyone assumed him to be. he was never rebellious, or thirsting for vengeance, or came to hate bruce as much as what everyone else thought of when they'd first hear his name.

even when he was revived in that sunken pit of hell, nineteen with a seventeen year old soul, feeling his once lanky body too tall, too big for him to flex his fingers, to kick with his now muscly legs, crying and screaming under all the madness of forcefully having his soul be reunited with his body after two years of peaceful rest.

and when he had returned to his senses, when he discovered that there were two new children running around the manor, one a product of a one-night stand, the other donning the identity of a new robin, did jason become the spiteful image everyone imagine the young boy came to be from when he was just an impulsive teenager.

becoming alive once more, reliving betrayal after betrayal, watching in the background: never the full story, but enough to feel like he's been replaced— it became his sole duty to torment, to do to criminals what has been done to him, just to teach the bat that his moral code was flawed, was what caused a thousand other souls to be lost under the hands of the puny joker.

all this, just to feel a sense of right in a life constantly wronging him.

yet under all the blood-soaked jackets, the aluminum amoury, under clenched teeth and resentful, dead blue eyes stood a boy who loved. who stole tires to provide for his small family who never truly loved him: a father who beats at his body nightly, a mother who dismisses him in favor of her favorite substances. who read books of all genre— classic his all time favorite, jane austen his beloved author, he loved school, loved learning, jason always came home with an A+ in all his subjects, eternally grateful despite the years of betrayal, of heartache, of shredded photos and shattered picture frames.

who advocated his young life fighting crime, kicking ass beside his vigilante partner and a man he came to call his dad, even though he had all the opportunities in the world to turn rotten like the crime infested streets of gotham. because he was a good kid, too, and a soldier the next.

he was never the violent kind. he was the kid who loved above all else. idolizing dick, bruce, all the good people in the world with shining ambitions that should've never been stained so early. he even told bruce he always wanted a little sibling to care for. he wanted to teach another young, unfortunate child what it's like to share kindess in this shithole of a city.

jason todd was a ball of pure joy, loved by bruce to the point his father could've never moved on from his death, never acknowledging the next traumatized child that came after him, and also tim, too, who he always mistakenly call by jason's name.

jason couldn't see beyond the surface of what he knew, masked by hatred for what had become after two years, questions spiraling hid head that accompanies a darkness he never knew could shroud him like a cloak. bruce used to hide him under his curtain of a cape back when he was a small, manourished kid, his vision overtaken by pure black; but now the older version of him knew what true darkness is like without needing his vision disrupted.

death feels like eternal darkness, a void that devours your vision of all colors, no physical form, no thoughts, but unmoving with the feelings grounding you in place, like hell. and with the shadow of doubt that he was never truly cherished by a man he loved to call his father, that no vengeance took place after his death, jason couldn't fathom the pain greater than what he experienced in that cold, dark warehouse; spending hours hoping that he'd be saved.

how long did it take for bruce to replace him? days, months, weeks?

how long did it take for bruce to move on? was he just an afterthought to the man? was he just a good soldier in bruce's eyes?

and why, just why, does he also blame himself for his own doom? for being stubborn enough to pursue chasing after a clown smarter than him, why does he

... if he had never died, things would've never escalated that far, it wouldn't have created a domino effect that ruined not only his life, but his angel's too.

if he had never died, you wouldn't be bleeding in his arms like he did too in bruce's.

... except unlike him back then, you want to simply die now.

jason's passing was not only his guilt or bruce's, it also marked the start of your treacherous journey of thirteen and a half years living in silence, in fear and in constant yearning after your mother's death, for a love so passionate from bruce like the one he gives to all his other children but you.

for a love he had given all up for jason that he never had any to spare to you.

bruce never gave you what you wanted, what you practically needed. all in favor of mourning the passing of his second child, his son who achieved more than the levels you knew you'd never reach. you were never the desirable child, because as good as you were like jason, as nice as you could be, or talented— nobody could replace the hole that jason left within bruce from when he left the world.

you both were good kids, but jason was infinitely better.

when you were first introduced to the manor, jason assumed you and tim replaced him, he watched secretly after his resurrection, with grim prayers for your downfall 'cause he couldn't attack you like he did tim in the tower because of your civilian status, your involvement towards batman was close to zero.

you were a young child, you knew nothing, and he hates you.

he regrets hating you.

all because he hates seeing himself in those young, glinting eyes. he never realized what he felt was fear, fear that someone like you could end up like him, when he had first obsessively did research on your buried past. your world could've been so easily destroyed by the tips of his finger and he had done so mercilessly until it was too late.

he really hated you at first, but he couldn't do anything to hurt you without trespassing the manor and triggering all the signals and alarms he's sure have been updated by the new, puny little robin. he hated you so much for reasons he couldn't pinpoint, blinded by sorrow, and grief, and every piling resentment built on years of animosity he should've only directed only towards bruce, and never someone as innocent, as uninvolved as you.

you, who he calls his angel after the years of torment you've unknowingly and obliviously suffered under him.

but he was so angered, the darkness in his mind clawed him deeper in a frenzy for revenge, that it overpowered the empathy he felt for when he first saw you, standing alone in the kitchen room with an apple in your hand and a blunt knife in the other. not ready to defend yourself at the sight of him, not even pointing it at him, but inviting the man to eat with you your favorite abomination of apple slices and peanut butter— as if you didn't care about the gun in his hands and the window cutter in the other.

you didn't understand why it was so easy to ignore you. it had been years since you have talked, let alone find yourself staring at a person, that you never cared for your safety as long as it meant that... well, you could have someone to finally talk to, with your parched throat from all the moments of unuse, excitedly addressing him as mr. ghost.

he couldn't do anything, couldn't even stare at you for longer, so he ran away at first glance, and failed to see the heartbroken sigh from you agter and the tears that welled up having your hopes raised up only to be shattered once more.

that sight of you standing under the moonlit night triggered conflicting feelings within him– but it was always the strive for vengeance that took over his life, didn't it? even though meeting you bore solid evidence that you were none the wiser, that you didn't deserve anything coming from you; it was through his sheer dedication to destroy all things cherished by bruce that he never once realized that you were merely nothing to bruce— that he ruined an innocent person's life over nothing.

he resorted to praying for your demise if it meant he couldn't physically hurt you. he focused on tormenting you indirectly before the fire in his raging heart was eventually extinguished.

he was the man you see by the hallways, the monster you thought raptured knocks on your window in the middle of the night, the reason for why some of your old childhood toys would be missing eyes, had loosened stitches, or had their stuffings removed and displaced somewhere hidden you couldn't reach.

a cryptic message that made you run and bury your head in alfred's suit, asking the old man to spend the night with you after another one of your toys was ripped apart. a reaction that made jason scoff at your immaturity; as if the inner child in him wouldn't react the same way.

you were only a few years younger than tim, despite arriving in the manor before him, and jason was stupid enough to assume you had been raised well by bruce that you'd be mature at your age, he was such an idiot to think that you wouldn't be as emotionally affected but rather paranoid of the sudden paranormal activity surrounding you. that the cookies you baked were all left to be crumbs, after just leaving them to cool off for a few minute, the pens you used for journalling wouldn't have gone missing— he thought surely, you'd be broken mentally...

but never this... emotionally.

what he didn't expect were breakdowns right after, hair pulling, the biting of skin and panic attacks after panic attacks.

wide eyes staring at the ceiling, perspiration on your skin clinging on to blazing bedsheets at the lack of ventilation, sporadic breathing, bleeding scratches on your skin like a wild animal.

you cry like one, unashamed of how loud your sobs were for such a parched throat, at how long you've been wailing alone whilst hugging your too-little body, eyes closed and misty, as if it would rid you the images of your wrecked bedroom and missing journals.

yet jason never stops to wonder why no one had came running in your room to save you from destroying yourself even further.

he never wondered nobody bothered to acknowledge your crying every night, continuing on his tangent to destroy everything you loved just to prove a point, that you couldn't be worth the effort for bruce to care enough about, despite the internal conflict he felt ruining an innocent kid's life.

and he didn't even need to prove anything, because you were never worth anything. the longer jason went on without bruce's acknowledgement, the more everything felt wrong, the more he felt like whatever he's doing is torture, not retribution.

he's terrible for what he'd done, and slowly resigned to watching over you instead to ensure you'll slowly calm down after months of his monstrous presence looming over you.

but the damage was already done, and you're left to even smaller, shattered pieces.

and here he is now, watching as you bleed out in his arms, crying and babbling at the pain, yet begging under your breath to "please, please don't call batman, don't call bruce... please leave, please, please, please don't do anything stupid, jay..."

whilst pushing him away, as if scared of him, as if you'd rather death than... than to see bruce dismiss another relayed message regarding you.

even if you're dying, you refuse to undergo the same pain of neglect. even if you're dying, you don't wish to ruin their movie night plans just because you were stupid enough to drink yourself to near death to distract yourself from dick's messages.

all because you've taught yourself that you're never worth the wait, and jason takes blame in partaking the destruction of your optimism.

under the flickering light of the lamppost, your swollen eyes and snot-ridden nose don't pose the same satisfaction he felt when he first ripped your plushie apart, not anymore. all he felt was dread now, that you're bleeding, his angel is bleeding and everything happening is very much real.

he feels a hidden awe, too, at just how ethereal and warm your body feels, despite the light leaving your eyes, the fight slowly being replace by another one of your panic attacks. he holds you still, and stabilizes your body with his strong arms to prevent anymore bleeding, despite the wobbly legs and your losing consciousness.

jason couldn't afford to let you die in his arms, he couldn't fathom just how much he misses your presence.

and now he realizes just how much he hates it when you fear him throughout the entire procedure of calming you down. how you shiver in his gaze, how he feels the pricks of your goosebumps against the thick fabric of his gloves.

you never once feared him when you first met him, it was through your lack of it that he bonded with you, keeping the torment he put you through a secret. even though he makes short and sometimes brash comments with his unfiltered mouth, you'll always find joy in his words because he was the only decent guy around the manor, despite his presence being scarce and sometimes nonexistent.

you cherished him, and god, he never knew how much he cherished you too.

but now you're sobbing and mumbling incoherently about how you wish it was never him who saved you, that it could've been someone else, or you prefer to be left rotting in the damn corner, dead and discarded, if it means it wouldn't be him saving you, for damn reasons he doesn't even know.

why do you hate him so much now...? why does his precious angel look at him in a tearful daze, all desparate to push him away despite the soreness of your body, despite the blood dripping from your lower stomach all the way down to the floor in a swirl of nauseating crimson mess?

why does he see himself in you?

why does he see the same broken child who chooses to care for others than themself?

as much as jason hated to admit it, as much as he said he never wanted to die for the sole reason that he cherished the moments with his father at most—

jason wished he could've turned time back right now, at this instant. he wished he could've been stronger, could've been far more resistant of that damn explosion, that he never was stupid enough to fall for one of joker's traps—

if it meant he wouldn't be suffering from the gripping ache on his chest, from the dreaded claws you call paranoia at the sight of your ice-blue lips and dimming eyes from all the blood loss, your arms still trying to push him to a considerable distance despite him wishing to hold you oh-so tightly, as his fingers, shivering from a familiar panic he felt, try to wipe away at the river of tears collecting at the edges of your dirt-stained chin and wobbly lips, his helmet pressed atop your forehead as if to reassure you, mostly himself that you'll all be alright—

that you wouldn't go through the same route as him, scarred and traumatized after this moment under the moonlit night that watches jason wrap his gloved palms on the back of your neck despite the remaining fight and adrenaline in your body, the other bulky mass of muscles under your feet.

the polluted air bares witness to his hasty breaths, the protective hold that refuses to let go, body automated to run to his motorcycle, stepping carelessly on the bloody carnage of the alleyway's floor (they deserve torture after what they put you through, hell, he'll make sure their burial will be damning to both the police that failed to search you even though they were in close proximity to where you screamed, and the other related lackeys involved in this wretched smuggling crime), to bring you to doctor leslie for an immediate surgery.

jason hopes that instead of hate, you'll still feel a semblance of any remaining love for him instead of aching nostalgia after all this time.

he hopes you could forgive him as it is only now that he realizes how vulnerable you truly are, that despite jokingly calling you his guardian angel, he should've been the guardian, the knight, the man who protects you from all evil as what he calls his morals to be.

why were you even out in the first place? just why were you absolutely wasted? why, why, why does the image of your resigned, and tired eyes the only thing flashing and looping in his mind, filtering out the speeding motorcycle cutting through wind and traffic lanes, ignoring red lights and the loud beeps of the other vehicles before him, the pump of engines similar to the wild beating of his heart, as he speeds through shortcuts after shortcuts to take you to immediate treatment before it was too late.

he takes short breaths, too aware of his surrounding, too deep in thought, he couldn't waste any moments thinking about anything but his angel.

he wishes he could've changed so many things. but you couldn't change the past anymore, you couldn't change the grueling form of torture you call silence for a child who wanted the same type of love bruce had for when jason was alive, who had to deal with the aftermath of jason's death.

and now, as the ripe age of eighteen, still too young, and still bleeding, at the mercy of death.

it never occured to him just how interconnected your lives were together. just how much it was through his passing that affected your life.

he was the first brother who saw you without the need for your cries of attention every lonesome passing of time in the ghostly manor.

and you were the first who stared at him through tear-stained cheeks and diluted irises. not out of fear, not out of haste to warn other members of his growing family of jason's (a stranger in your eyes, no less, with armoured chest plates and a crimson helmet glinting mercilessly in the dark, lightless room only illuminated by the wretched moon, with guns loaded with bullets in his holster) sudden trespass within the kitchen windows, not out of every negative emotions he expects of you; but out of sheer shell shock that someone had finally caught you through your nightly sneaking.

out of genuine whiplash of someone finally looking at you eye-to-eye, head faced to one another, your cold fingertips pressing against the swell of your eyebags from restless nightmares and anxious paranoia triggered from academics, as if to tell yourself that this was all mere hallucination.

you matter so much to him, even if he tries to overcorrect his sins, trying his damn best to notice your presence whenever he visits the manor, even if his brash words sting your heart sometimes, even if he couldn't properly show you affection he should've given you—

it's not enough.

it was never enough, that even his gentle words spoken to you whilst he speeds through his motorcycle felt entire foreign. that despite unconscious and limp on his body, you're still flinching and the tears couldn't have enough time to dry. jason could've done so much more for his precious little sibling, he could've been the best older brother in the world like he promised himself to be back when he was an oblivious little child, just like how he sees you right now.

everything he did was not enough, but the doubts that circulate his mind didn't fester in his mind much anymore; because he turned it into motivation, he looks at you through the mirror of his motorcycle, vulnerable, aching with the need for affection (that he could provide, he could give to you infinitely...!) and transforms the regret into motivation.

to be better, to be the one you look up to, not with thoughts of how or when you'll be able to spend time with him, but with confidence and preference for his time. that he'll be the first you choose to look for.

jason promises you his undying loyalty, to protect you from the danger of this world, to savor the light and the warmth that emanates off of your presence. despite the heartache you felt because of him, because of all your tormentors— you were still kind, like an angel who had fallen from grace, but chose to grace the world instead with their remaining salvation.

if you manage to survive throughout it all, through the surgery and the anaesthesia-filled stitchings, with jason's scarred hands wrapped around your fists, daintier compared to the muscles in his. if by the end of this night, jason would have you alive (he will, he'll refuse anything else, even if it takes you being resurrected in the lazarus pit, then so be it) in his arms and resting peacefully in his apartment and not under bruce's roof, out of respect from your sheer insistence that you'd rather anywhere but the manor.

jason swears on his life that he'll make it up to you.

he'll be better for you, for his angel, to atone himself for all the sins he committed upon you.

and even if it means ripping the world upside down at its seems, even if it takes decades for you to feel comfortable within the confines of his arms, unlike the dread that claws at your body earlier, pushing him away, pushing your older brother away— he's willing to undergo even the same torture from joker if it means making up to you.

as long as he has you in his sights.

all this, just to see the fear in your eyes replaced by genuine happiness at the sight of your big brother, ready to do anything for you the moment requests spill out from your benevolent lips and gleaming eyes.

you truly are his saving grace, his angel in disguise.

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

PLEASE READ: 14,200+ words. no beta, we just cry. "i am good, but not an angel. i do sin, but i am not the devil. i am just a small child in a big world trying to find someone to love." it's a quote that inspired this half of the chapter partly. apologies to anyone if jason seems a bit religious here??? he's not, but i'm trying to establish connections on why he even calls you that nickname in the first place (and totally not me relating it to the flashpoint comic where he becomes a priest 😭). again, bit of a boring chapter, but no hate please haha, instead leave comments if you enjoyed reading it!!! more interactions = more content.

there are many lyrics and song references scattered about the paragraphs, can you guys spot it all for me 🫦? i'm a musically inclined guy, and there's also lots of not implicitly stated songs too, i lost count honestly. tysm for all your patience, because writing through my hectic schedule is honestly a struggle.

as stated, there are a lot of jason todd and mc parallels, i love hearing you guys' thoughts about me expanding upon this. they're very different but also share so many similarities, and i like to explore deeper on every character just to make the yandere element more obvious and distinct.

and like my previous announcement too, please please please do not copy off the scenes i wrote. although my writing is mid, it doesn't mean it should be stolen word by word or the entire scenarios or scenes i've written should be taken in and written into your own fanfics too. my potrayals of each and every characters are a bit more unique takes too (i like to make myself believe), so as much as possible, please credit me. i appreciate you all 🩷

yet again, leave comments, interactions, what you think of this chapter (but not too critical comments, or pure hate please). idk what to feel about my writing, i hate it a lot sometimes but oh well! merry christmas, this is my early gift for all of you guys and for the second part, i'll try to post as soon as possible (i need to generate more spotlight to ensure they get equal attention ofc).

taglist: @neerathebrightstar, @ghostdoodlen, @prince-nikko, @daisy-spot, @strawberryglass, @h0neybun-was-here, @confused-they, @weirdcore-fantasy, @mystyque234, @marssthings, @notwhoy0uthink, @aliengutzstuff, @lilyalone, @luffyadolover, @punpunsonny, @lazyemmy, @questionthegrapevine, @oh-nowo-i-got-uwu, @winter-world, @zavavas-dungeon, @budijojo, @altruisticbeauty, @dopepursebasketballplaid, @the-holy-pigeon, @red-phantom-0, @em-draws14, @thypplover, @cens0r3d-blog, @yl90, @sadeem575, @couldeatthatgirlforlunch, @maicenitas, @kiiyoooo, @flyingpansaurus, @farmerboywakatoshikun-blog, @rogueofbullshit, @earlqurl, @dotomuses, @sheep-from-rad, @tsuniio, @thesm1l3yface, @nosochek-3o, @radiantharu, @iwasveronica, @kdjhubby, @ashstwin, @thetreefairypersonalblog, @se-rae2, @0ut0fsweets, @notwhoy0uthink

[dreamdragonkadia]

p.jackson x reader

You weren’t sure when exactly Percy started calling you “love.” Well, that wasn’t entirely true. You could pinpoint the first time he said it, but when it became his default for you? That was harder to place. If anyone asked Percy what he found most exciting about being in a relationship, he'd grin and say, "The nicknames, obviously." And oh, did he try plenty.

It started with the classics. “Babe” lasted for a solid few months. You’d hear it at random moments—whether he was tossing you a can of soda during a movie marathon or tugging you into a last-minute hug before a quest. But one day, as he passed you a granola bar while training, he made a face. "You deserve better than 'babe,'" he’d declared, like it was some sort of grand epiphany. “Too generic. You’re… you’re you.”

And so began Percy’s experimentation phase.

“Princess” made its debut during a campfire. You’d rolled your eyes at him, calling it “cheesy,” but he insisted it suited you. “Come on, it’s perfect. You’re badass enough to take on a cyclops but still fancy enough to deserve a tiara.” It stuck, kind of, but only when he was in an especially playful mood.

Then came “Beautiful.” It wasn’t anything special at first, just something he blurted one morning while handing you a plate of pancakes. But the way his face turned pink when he realized what he’d said made it impossible for you to tease him about it. That one lingered, though it was mostly reserved for quiet moments—soft whispers when the world felt like too much or murmurs as he held your hand under the stars.

But “Sweetheart”? That one had a purpose. It was Percy’s go-to for calming you down, for reminding you to breathe when your ADHD made the world spin too fast or when the stress of demigod life crept in. “Sweetheart,” he’d say, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “We’ve got this. I’ve got you.”

Then came “love.” And oh, did that one stick. You remember the first time he said it like it was yesterday. You’d been on a date, the rare kind where monsters weren’t interrupting and the world wasn’t crashing down on your shoulders. Somewhere along the night, the heel of your shoe broke. Classic demigod luck. Percy, being ever the gentleman, crouched down in the middle of the street without hesitation. His fingers were deft as he worked, steadying the broken strap like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Hold still,” he muttered, his warm hands brushing against your ankle as you wobbled slightly. Your hands rested on his broad shoulders for balance, and he glanced up at you with that crooked smile you loved so much.

When he finished, he pressed a kiss to your thigh, his lips lingering for just a second. “There you go, love,” he said, his voice soft, intimate in a way that made your chest feel tight and warm all at once.

You blinked down at him, heart pounding a little faster. It wasn’t the word itself that got to you—it was how he said it. Casual, like it had always been yours, but with an undercurrent of something so deep it nearly knocked the breath out of you.

Since then, it’s stuck, weaving itself seamlessly into your lives. He’ll toss it out when you least expect it—“What do you want for dinner, love?” or “Careful, love, that monster looks meaner than usual.” And every time he says it, your stomach does a little flip.

Because Percy Jackson doesn’t just say “love” like it’s a word. He says it like it’s a promise.

[milkywayes]

interspecies awkwardness for breakfast a.k.a. 'I can't believe I made a comic'

[omega-e123]

!! NSFW !!

cw: mild somnophilia(?), Cunnilingus, Vaginal sex. Fingering. Breeding kink.

In A Rut…

Prologue || Restraint || Part 3 (HERE) || Adoration

Indulgence

Depressed. Lonely. Unwanted. Those are the words that you’d describe how you’re feeling. You knew Shadow liked his personal space, but isn’t this a bit much? After being the only one initiating for a month straight, it’s finally taken its toll on you.

Rationally, you’re aware if Shadow didn’t at least tolerate your company, he wouldn’t give you the time of day. Let alone reciprocate affection when given. It still hurt, putting in all the effort suddenly.

It’s been a while since the last time you spent the night at his place. Not from the lack of asking. Shadow shot down every time it was brought up. The way he answered differed. Sometimes it was a flat, “No.” Other times he would go silent, deep into thought before politely declining. There was no tell whether or not Shadow was hesitating to say yes or to say no.

Tonight was the night. You practically begged him. Your hands clasps his, bringing it to your chest. Puppy eyes refuse to break contact even as he slightly turned his head away. “Pretty please Shadow? Pleaaaase? I really miss you. Just one night,” you implored.

Shadow grits his teeth. The glaring annoyance in his features conceal Shadow’s inner turmoil. Curse these damn thoughts. If only you were begging for something else. I’d give it all in a heartbeat.

Damn it— “Tch! Fine. For one night.”

It’s a good thing he already replaced those torn covers…

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

The plan was simple. You take his bed, Shadow takes the couch. With this arrangement, he can keep himself in check while you’re still able to get a peaceful night’s sleep.

What a fool he was hoping that you’d agree.

Even though Shadow insisted he take the couch so you can have his bed all to yourself, you countered with, “Well, if you’re going to sleep on the couch so will I! I didn’t ask to stay for the night for us to end up not sleeping together, idiot.”

At first, you tried to sleep with your head laid on his chest. Leg propped over Shadow’s torso. Normally, you both wouldn’t have a problem falling into a deep slumber like this. A subtle steady heartbeat coercing your body to drift away. Protective arms wrapped around your being. Tonight? You weren’t sure if who you’re nuzzling against was a hedgehog or a wooden log.

Try as he might, Shadow couldn’t relax his muscles. In and out. Focus on breathing. Nothing else.

Don’t pay any mind on how much his body has been aching for your touch. Ignore the hot breath that tickles his chest. Your sickly sweet scent filling up his nose. The way your crotch is pressed up against his hip.

You resign, noticing the rigid, mechanical breathing. Wordlessly peeling yourself off of Shadow to lay on your side, back towards him. Better not make him any more uncomfortable even though you really wanted to cuddle him. Give him space and let him chase.

Almost immediately, some of the tension Shadow was holding dissipates. Finally allowing himself to sink further into the mattress. The air feels like a thousand needles pricking him now that your warmth is gone. A heavy breath leaves him, not noticing he’s been holding it in this whole time.

It would be so much easier if he simply told you what is going on. Why he has been ‘distant’ for the past few weeks. Bringing up the topic feels too awkward, too… humiliating. Your partner is so stubborn when it came to asking for help. Shadow didn’t need to suffer alone at all if only he spoke up. You were more than happy to assist him whenever needed… this Shadow knew well.

Weight of the mattress shifts behind you. Springs crunching and squeaking underneath. You paid no mind as your consciousness stood at the border of dreamland.

As the last strand of thought was about to be plucked away, a paid of arms found purchase around your waist. Like a squeaky toy being squeezed, your eyes shot open and bulged out as you quietly squealed from the sudden movement.

Shadow’s body and yours press up against each other. Legs tangle with one another. A tender kiss is pressed to the back of your neck sending goosebumps down your spine.

Sleep finally drags you into the void.

ੈ✩‧₊˚

Moonlight peeks through the cracks of the black out curtains. Watching your every move. Shadows intertwine and dance upon the cool sheets of the bed. Ecstasy clings onto every inch of your skin. Combined sweat glistening due to the spotlight provided by the moon.

“Ngh.. haah.. Shadow—“

Your heart leaps out of your chest. The utterance of your partners name startles you awake. Wetness pools in between your legs from the dream. Underwear sticks uncomfortably to your cunt.

Heavy breathing combined with something hard pressed against your ass signals that you’re not the only one having a wonderful dream or maybe he was the cause? Pressure varies from light to firm in a nice rhythmic pattern.

Shadow’s arms are wrapped around you tight, unaware that you’re awake. His hot breaths that moan your name tickle your ear. One hand begins to wander. The inhibitor ring gets caught by the fabric, here and there, contributing to his clunky movements. Eventually it finds its way to the edge of your shirt. Shadow’s bare hand slides up your abdomen, between the valley of your breasts, before settling on a mound. Gently but firmly gripping it. Even though you call out his name, no response is given. Shadow continues to hump your ass, riling you up more. Hips begin to move in tandem with his, craving more friction. A whimper escapes past your lips, calling out his name once more.

What woke Shadow up was your hand squeezing the top of his. Blinking the sleep away, he became more aware of his actions.

Guilt swallows him up whole. Shadow mutters a rushed apology, “I didn’t— Forgive me.” His ears flick back momentarily in agitation as he begins to free his limbs from you. Although untangled your hand refuses to let go. When he sits up, so do you. Oh no, you’ve let this gone on long enough.

“Forgive you for what?”, you interject, worry laced in your words. Due to the low light in the room, you could only partially see Shadow’s expression. An oh so familiar mask of stone adorns his face.

He doesn’t move an inch. A good sign. It means he’s not immediately avoiding or distancing himself from you. A chance to reel Shadow back... To keep him grounded.

Silence follows your question. Again, you speak up, “What’s on your mind, my love? You’ve been acting odd these days. If there’s anything I can help you with…”

The void of the room stares straight back at Shadow. Thoughts collecting to form a coherent sentence. Finally he speaks, though not of his own volition. Words spill out before he could stop them, “That’s the problem. You can and you would. Taking advantage of you is not something I intend to do… but I might with my current state.”

Brows furrow and a deep frown sets on your muzzle. “What the fuck are you talking about.” May the gods praise you for your patience with this man—. Sucking in a sharp inhale you speak again,“Shadow.. It is not taking advantage for accepting my help. Otherwise I wouldn’t have offered in the first place. It’s not as if I’m physically unable to say no later down the line anyways,” your free hand reaches up to Shadow’s cheek, turning his face towards you, “So if you could please tell me instead of having me guess, I would appreciate it.”

Your hand is so incredibly soft. Shadow couldn’t help but lean into your touch. “It’s— rutting season,” he mutters under his breath.

“What?”

Although he’s facing you, his eyes refuse to meet yours. Shadow’s shyness announces its presence in the form of crimson staining his cheeks, “It’s.. supposedly the time of the year for hedgehogs having the urge to breed.” His tail thumps excessively at the thought of knocking you up. Reaching back, Shadow grabs his tail to hold it still.

The cogs in your brain begin to turn, putting the pieces together. This whole time he was acting touch adverse due to being overstimulated by your presence. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t a little disappointed that Shadow didn’t tell you sooner.

Taking too long to answer, Shadow takes your silence as judgement. “Hmph, I’m sleeping on the couch,” he announces, shuffling away from you.

“The hell you are! You’re finishing what you started tonight, mister.” Your partner is forcefully yanked back and pinned onto the mattress. Straddling him, you can see his features much easier. Eyes looking up at you widen in shock before narrowing. Shadow’s fangs flash in a mischievous smirk.

“You are aware of what you’re asking, right?”

“Uh, yes?”

Easy as flipping a pancake, you two switch positions. Your hands are in tight grips above your head. Shadow leans close to your ear, chests nearly touching. In a low sultry voice he says, “You sound unsure. Allow me to clarify: I won’t be done with you until you’re passed out or I’m empty, understood?”

It was as if a switch had been flipped inside him. Now that the laundry has been hung up to air, Shadow can finally indulge what he’s been craving for: you.

Scarlet eyes scan your features for any hint of fear, hesitation. Of course Shadow wants you to be comfortable and enjoy yourself while he lets out his urges.

Immediately your heart leaps into your throat. Excitement shooting through your system like electricity. The edges of your mouth twist upwards into a lopsided smile. “Loud and clear, Shad. You have a lot of lost time to make up,” you answer back cheekily. Finding your answer satisfactory, Shadow encapsulates your lips in a kiss. Starting slow, pacing yourselves, enjoying the moment.

Minuscule moans fill the silence here and there as the pace picks up. Wanting more contact, your hands struggle against Shadow’s grip. One hand lets go to snake under your shirt and massage your breast. The other adjusts to keep both of your wrists down.

So much stimulation but none quite what your body aching for. Legs squirm, complaining about the lack of attention on your bottom half. Your hips arch up, drawing out a guttural moan from Shadow. As you two part, a single string of saliva bridges the gap. He hushes you, “Behave and sit pretty. You can do that, right?”

Entranced, you simply nod your head.

“Good. I promise I’ll take care of you,” Shadow whispers, pecking your cheek. A kiss is pressed to your neck, your throat, collarbone. One after the other, he leaves a trail of kisses leading all the way down to your abdomen.

The smell of your cunt already abuses Shadow’s nose. Hunger grows within him. Patience is a virtue; however, nothing will stop this unholy night. A finger hooks to the hem of your underwear. Delicately Shadow pulls them down, stopping inches from revealing your clit. His lips encapsulates the bud, giving it a gentle suck and a flick of his tongue. A quiet gasp is pulled from you. From there he rips off the thin fabric, tossing it off the bed carelessly.

“Hey! That was my favorite pair!” You complained in a huff.

Teeth graze your inner thighs, causing them to quiver with anticipation. Your concern about the small fabric disintegrated by a simple act. A low feint chuckle can be heard if you listened closely. The underside of your knees are propped up over Shadow’s shoulder after he pulls you down closer by the hip bones. A nip near your pussy elicits a squeal of pain mixed with pleasure. Just as you were about to playfully scold Shadow, a drawn out moan fills the bedroom. His tongue dances over your clit. With each suck, your back arches, chasing his lips. Claws dig into your flesh, drawing little beads of blood. A silent command telling you to hold still.

“Shaaaadow~!” You cry out. So many sensations tingling your skin.

He backs off for a moment, blowing onto the folds of your pussy. Instinctively your knees buckle together.

A quiet, “Hnph,” signals Shadow’s satisfaction in teasing you.

It couldn’t be helped. He’s so aggressive, intending to devour you. Tension builds up in your torso but not quite close to snapping. The folds of your pussy spread as Shadow’s tongue slides up the slit and enters. Drinking up every drop of nectar.

Meanwhile, his bottom half has been busy, rubbing itself against the mattress in a steady rhythm. Every time Shadow got close, he would cease his movements for a second before continuing. All of his cum was going to go inside you.

Time is at a standstill, staring at the bedroom wall. You concentrate on the assault his mouth is currently conducting. Hands cling onto the sheets for dear life as you try to obey Shadow.

“Ah— ah.. please..” you manage out, nearly breathless. He pauses. Darkened eyes look up, waiting for you to continue with your train of thought. The loss of contact allows cold air to hit your cunt.

“Please, what?” Shadow asks politely as if he wasn’t just nose deep in you, “What is it that you need?”

“I need more.. more friction”

Now towering over you, your legs are nearly pressed to your chest. His hands propped on either side of your head, supporting his weight. Shadow’s cock effortlessly sliding between your labia “Mmnh. You’re going to have to elaborate more than that.”

This fucker. Teasing your entrance. One fell swoop and it’ll go right in. Your pussy clenches nothing at the thought, bringing attention of just how empty you are. “Need more.. more friction, please. I need you inside. Please, Shadow.”

“Your wish is my command, darling.”

You should have known better to think he was going to start fucking you. No surprise that Shadow travels back down, sliding a single digit in. You can feel his smug grin against your sex when you hissed out of disappointment. Another finger is added in, curling against your walls. Shadow’s free hand splays atop your belly.

Oh, how your pussy glistened with your arousal. Sweet nectar drip onto the mattress, creating a lovely pool. It might stain after tonight. Your needy cunt clenches around his fingers. That familiar tension rises back up as Shadow sucks and French kisses your clit. So red, puffy, and sore. He’s absolutely proud of his work.

Before you knew it, praises began to tumble out. Your hand reaches down to grab Shadow’s hand, holding it tight. Legs quiver as his hand picks up the pace. A third finger slides in easily. Stars enter the edge of your vision. The familiar bedroom ceiling now turning into a night sky.

“Love, you’re going to crush my hand,” he laughs. His ministrations continue while he rises up to lay next to you. Both of his legs capturing one of your thighs. “Keep them open for me.”

Arms reach underneath, pulling Shadow into a hug. You beg and plead him, “I’m close— I’m so close. Shadow I’m going to cum. Fuck, let me cum please.” When your nails dig into his back, a pleasureful growl bubbles up from his throat. In efforts to silence it, Shadow’s lips crash into yours. The taste of your slick swirling around.

Your hips erratically buck into his fingers, chasing that high. Like a mirror shattering into a million pieces, you had come undone. Screams of ecstasy reaches the heavens even with your teeth buried into Shadow’s neck. Wet slapping follows suit as he guides you through your climax. “Music to my ears. Ah, you’ve done such a good job,” Shadow whispers into your ear, slowing down his movements but not quite stopping. Tears nearly form from the overstimulation. To let him know, you whimper, “Too much”, into his chest, nuzzling in.

When Shadow pulls out, a pathetic mewl escapes past your lips. Already, you miss the warm feeling in your pussy. He brings up his sodden fingers and licks it clean before lifting your chin up to give you another taste. During this little break Shadow’s giving you, a warm palm caresses your cheek, lightly stroking it.

“You better not be tired, yet. I’m not done with you”

Caged below his body, his cock, seeping with precum rests on the low part of your belly. Even though your body is still recovering, it can’t help but shake in anticipation.

A sticky trail leads down to your entrance. The tip just barely prodding the entrance. Your hips instinctively want squirm, allowing it in. Looks like Shadow noticed as well, because he backed away just out of reach. He wants you bad; however, watching your cute little face twist out of frustration was simply too entertaining.

Here you thought that Shadow would be the impatient one, waiting so long to fuck your brains out. How the hell has he been able to keep it together now that finally got what he needed? Well, Shadow’s mind has been teetering on the edge. Holding it together long enough so you’re also enjoying it too. Not only mindless fucking to reach his objective. You’re not merely a means to an end.

“There’s only two things you need to remember, okay? My name, and that you’re mine.” To emphasize the last two words, Shadow slams his cock in one fell swoop.

Once again his claws sink into the sheets and mattress below, unable to contain his fervor. Because your cunt didn’t have enough time to adjust and accommodate Shadow’s length, it squeezes him tight. The sensation was not unwelcome. Pain and pleasure dancing in a delicate tango.

A long breathy moan is accompanied by his own animalistic growl. He does his best in earnest to stay still, savoring the way your pussy stretched and clenched around his cock. “Fuck you’re so good to me,” he moans, “You don’t know how much I wanted you— needed you.”

Shadow’s hips slowly pull back just to thrust deep into you again. The sudden motion causes you to grip tightly onto forearms. Your head tosses back with a gasp.

It felt like you were made for him. Made for each other. He starts to pump into you. Ass bouncing from the force. Shadow’s gaze never leaves your face. Every little expression you make, he commits to memory. The way you have to keep prying your eyes off of his to keep from being hypnotized, entranced. When you bite the inside of your lip or open your mouth for a silent cry of pleasure. Your eyes squeezing shut and brows knitting together, as you violently turn your head from hitting that right spot.

Not enough. Not enough. Not enough!

Your ear is captured between his lips, nibbling and sucking on it. The sensation tickles. You giggle, finally letting out that breath you’ve been unconsciously holding. Shadow whispers into your ear, “Good.. make sure you’re breathing. I’m going to pull you in closer, okay?”

Your hands are removed from him as he sits up for a moment to adjust. In order to gain better access, you are folded up into a proper mating press. Legs hooked onto the crook of Shadow’s arms. Knees on either side of your head.

The new angle allows him to hit you deeper and with the way your hips are positioned will perfectly hold his cum in. Mercilessly, Shadow pounds into your little hole. Despite his best efforts to redirect his fangs, they continue to land on multiple spots along your collarbone and neck. Bruises and bite marks for everyone to see who you belong to.

With each thrust, his dick kisses your cervix.

It’s a good thing you didn’t live in an apartment, but you were sure the neighbors across the street could hear your screams of euphoria.

You looked so lovely. Heavenly, even. Shadow wonders how he was able to snag an angel like you. Those three little words, Shadow doesn’t say them often enough as he thinks he should. You understand. His actions speak volumes much louder.

At the pace Shadow is going at, he’s not going to last very long. Judging by the way your face is scrunched up and the tension in your nether regions, you’re in the same boat.

“Relax. Cum for me, my love.”

That’s all it took for you to unravel once again. Shadow is pulled in for a tight embrace as you call out his name, telling him how much you love him. Your sweet words melt his heart.

Trembling, quaking, your orgasm rips through your body while Shadow continues to snap his hips, his own climax following close behind. If you weren’t so cock drunk, you’d have heard “I love you” tumble from your partner. Words that come out of your mouth are no longer coherent but rather a giant babbling mess. Your cunt milks every single drop his cock has to offer. His movements slow down.

Shadow’s body isn’t satisfied. Even if he wanted to, his hips won’t stop. Not until he drowns your cervix in hot sticky cum. Filled to the brim until it starts leaking out even with his dick plunged deep in.

“You’re mine. All mine.”

Round one of many.

[charlietheepicwriter7]

De-Aged Danny, gesturing to a dazed Bruce inside Wayne Manor: And this is Bruce! Otherwise known as the Himbo! Reporters: Hmm, yes, interesting... Bruce: What the- Danny: I'm not sure what that word means. I heard it from Dick, but no one will give me my answer, not even Jason, who is easily bribed. Bruce: Why are there reporters in my house!? Danny, innocent and childlike: They asked to come inside, Bruce! They seemed like really nice people, so I thought it'd be polite to give them a tour. Bruce, filled with infinite patience: I really wish you had asked me before you did that, chum. Danny: But why? We don't have anything to hide... do we, Bruce?

Or, in order to rise to the Ghost Throne, Danny has to complete a series of trials to prove he is capable of ruling (or any other reason, Danny just needs to do trials to prove himself).

The last trial, issued by Clockwork, is thus: discover the Wayne Family secret in two weeks without the use of any of his powers.

He has one shapeshift to pick a form that could endere him to the Waynes, but only one before he starts and he has to get close to the family by his own wits. Danny, after studying the family and reading of one sentence summary of each Wayne, picks the body of a six-year-old little boy that looked like a child Jason Todd.

Bruce: That child is up to something. Dick, third favorite: I don't know, Bruce; he acts like a normal kid. Jason, #1 favorite: I doubt the old man's ever met a normal kid. Tim, least favorite: Bruce is right, but can you please not talk like the villains from Chicken Run.

[stealingyourbones]

Mr. Mxyzptlk decides to have some fun and decides it’s time for some bodyswapping shenanigans. Behold, a list of varying bodyswaps I think would be neat to explore:

—

Jack Fenton and Clark Kent

Jack being Jack and getting used to his powers and being INCREDIBLY confused that he woke up NOT in his bed, not next to his incredible wife, and assuming this is a ghosts shenanigans. Clark is freaking out because he’s human, not next to HIS incredible wife, assumes this is a Mxyzptlk plot, and cements himself as an incredibly good father figure with Danny and Jazz, reaching out to other Supers for help to teach Jack the ropes and to wait out whatever Mxy has done.

—

Artemis swapping with Jazz

during an Outlaws mission and DURING some test for Jazz. Both freak out, both have to adjust to the other persons strengths and abilities, and Jason and Bizzaro have to calm a very confused and scared teenager who’s in an Amazonian body. While Danny’s friends are DESPERATELY trying to stop Artemis from throwing hands with every ghost she sees.

—

Johnny 13 and Jason Todd

Jason Todd is dead again. Not Good. Johnny is alive again. This ROCKS! Jason’s Red Hood goons lock him up because their boss is clearly compromised. Jason figures a way out of the Ghost Zone and asks Phantom for help. Along with having to acclimate to being able to control a sentient shadow and ghostly powers, Jason is in for a doozy. Johnny on the other hand, is going through many many attempts to escape Red Hood’s room and failing… until Red Robin crashes through a window. Apparently he should have answered the calls on Red Hood’s phone. Red Robin near instantly clocks that whoever is in Jason’s body, isn’t Jason. Ok, time to bring Not Jason to the Batcave to figure out what’s going on.

—

Vlad Masters and Alfred Pennyworth

Instant character change from both parties. Alfred is midway through talking to Bruce about over exerting himself and Vlad is midway through nearly successfully capturing Phantom.

—

Paulina and Wonder Woman

Paulina having to adjust with Amazonian strength and being lassoed by another party to figure out what’s happening in full (prolly Batman and his paranoid ass wanting the absolute truth <3). Diana having to adjust with being an average teenage girl who’s also high up on the Highschool food chain and pretending nothing is wrong until she can contact the League to figure out what just happened.

—

Tucker Foley and Dick Grayson:

Tucker swapping with Dick while Dick is at the Batcave. He’s too busy marveling at the tech and not really registering that he’s Not In His Body until he hears a roar of a motorcycle somewhere in the distance (One of the Batfamily coming back to the cave), and his reality comes crashing down. Tucker is mid ghost capture when Dick swaps with him and realizes VERY quickly that he’s not in his body and proceeds to go “fuck it. This hero he doesn’t know is genuinely struggling and he needs to blend in until he knows what’s going on. Dick doesn’t know this guys fighting capabilities but he has to AT LEAST know how to dodge well and aim well (Spoiler alert: Tucker doesn’t.

—

Danny Fenton and Martian Manhunter

DANNY IS AN ALIEN! THIS IS THE COOLEST THING EVER!!… Danny also has absolutely no idea how to shapeshift so he’s stuck in J’onn’s true Martian form and uncontrollably shapeshifting random parts of his body out of stress because he can hear *everyones thoughts* within a few miles. Danny’s grown to be a quick learner with powers but with all this noise he just. Can’t. Concentrate. J’onn doing his damndest to act as a regular human boy while not panicking about having absolutely zero telepathy. He’s told the boy’s friends after they noticed something wrong. He found out midway on the walk to Sam’s house that J’onn can turn invisible quite easily. It’s not the same as it is in his body but it’s not too different, kind of like flexing a different sequence of muscles to create the same movement.

[steelsartcorner]

BG3 Comic: An Unwelcome Surprise

(Be forewarned: Dark Urge Act 3 Spoilers. Post is tagged. Click “read more” for the full comic.)

I always find myself wondering about the side conversations that must happen between the other characters while your PC is busy talking to the plot point givers.