#this was the title in my word docs

[plush-rabbit]

Dating Headcanons - The Riddler

Request: OH MY GOD YES PLEASE GIRL I REALLY WANNA SEE UR TAKE ON THE RIDDLER AKA THE BABYGIRL ILL GET ON MY HANDS AND KNEES FOR U TO MAKE HEADCANONS FOR THAT LITTLE FREAK 

TW: Abusive relationships

A/N: I did not rewatch the movie, so this is purely gonna be in vibes and this one batman/riddler fic i read (i feel like it switches a bit in pov but i hope that isn’t too much of a bother!!)

SFW:

Edward is a sweet guy. A bit odd, but sweet- you think to yourself that there’s no real harm in being nice to him. It’s Gotham- people are already on edge and just kind of horrible to one another, and you, being as naïve and hopeful for the best, think that being nice to people is something that won’t do any harm. Especially to some dorky guy who comes in and orders pie at the restaurant that you work in. He tips well, and he isn’t rude to you, nor does he make any type of pass. No harm done in being nice. But then he gets touchy and it feels off. He lets his hand linger on yours for a bit longer than normal, and tries to make conversation that ultimately falls flat. He’s awkward and nervous, and saying yes to a date can’t lead to anything bad because it’s him, your loyal customer who leaves generous tips. 

It’s surprising when you find yourself actually dating the lonesome man. The date was sweet- generic, but sweet nonetheless. He was a gentleman all throughout it, taking the subway with you to drop you off at your apartment, kissing your cheek and walking away without a fuss. He doesn’t want to impose himself on you- and now he knows where you live. Purely for innocent reasons of course! He’s clingy. He hadn’t realized just how starved for human connection he was until he met you. It’s as if he can’t get enough of you, latching onto you like a stray cat, always curling against you, never wanting you to rise even if you have to do something important. He loves to hold your hand, to turn it over and trace the lines on your palm, to compare hand sizes, and watch as you interlace your hand with his. Long when you’ve fallen asleep and his hand has grown clammy in yours, he still traces over the lines and kisses every inch of skin from the tips of your fingers down to your wrist. His hands ghost over your body, feeling your pulse thump under his finger, and trace up to your shoulder and to the soft part of your neck and hold his hand around your neck.

Finally, he’s allowed to be himself around you. He’s allowed to be needy and whiny, and that he is. He complains so much, and like the good partner you are, you listen, because you’ve seen him get angry before, and it’s someone you don’t recognize. It’s the little things about him that make him, him. He gets cold easily- from the tip of his nose that turns red and cheeks that soon match, to his hands that can hardly grasp onto anything. It’s during the cold nights at Gotham, where his shabby apartment has lost its heating again, that he remembers he has you. He’ll swallow his pride and take a late train, and stand outside your door, his knuckles red and feeling far more painful with the soft knocking than they should have when you open the door. You usher him in, and warm his hands slowly, and he says nothing during this time, watching you warm his hands with your own, or blowing warm breath against him, and he takes that moment to kiss you, and you yelp because of course, he’s still cold, but when he pulls away, you hold his face with your hands, and deepen the kiss. 

There weren’t many warning signs that he was a possessive man, much less an obsessive man. Perhaps what should have tipped you off was the fact that he always broke something whenever you tried to leave during an argument. He asks you about work- if there’s anyone he should be worried about, and you say no. It gets harder and harder to leave his apartment, it takes at least an hour of convincing him that you’ll call him once you get home. It takes longer to convince him that he’s the only one for you. You have to kiss him, hold him, worship the ground that he walks on, lest he gets upset. He complains so much, and like the good partner you are, you listen, because you’ve seen him get angry before, and it’s someone you don’t recognize. He starts with little things- breaking into your home, stealing a few items, pocketing a few of your underwear into his jacket pocket, going through every inch of your drawers to find something, anything really. 

Being comfortable in a relationship isn’t something Edward ever thought he could attain. He’s been so preoccupied with other things, that he has grown accustomed to you, he found himself to be far more fond of you than he could have ever imagined. But he still has things to do, and you’ve been getting in the way lately. You pester him about dates, and how he doesn’t spend enough time with you, and he’s been so patient with you. He’s taken you out to eat, he’s listened to you whine about your day- he’s been a good partner. Yet, you’ve still found a way to become more of a nuisance to him, and it would only be fair for him to complain, to bitch and moan like you have. But when he complains about the rich, about children dying in cold, about how people should pay for their wealth in blood, and how he hates that you still try to act like some respectable person when you’re nothing but a waiter, suddenly he’s gone too far. He throws a tantrum when you tell him you want to leave- it doesn’t matter if it’s the location or the relationship, you want to leave him. He smashes your things and calls you awful names until you’re back in a corner and he's holding something heavy, and when you start to cry, he cries harder. He gets on his knees and cries into your stomach, apologizing and telling you never again-just that he’s so stressed, but he cares for you so much that he doesn’t know what he would do if you left him.

NSFW:

Being a virgin isn’t something that he’s proud to admit. Anything close to being sexual makes him anxious- he isn’t sure how to tell you that he’s inexperienced. He’s been close with you, kissed you desperately, teeth clashing and hands scratching at your skin, desperately wanting to touch at your breasts and beneath your underwear. Of course, he’s touched himself, much more than usual now that you’re around, but it doesn't replace human contact- actually being intimate with another person, and knowing what you’re doing. He’s awkward, fumbling around and biting at your skin hard enough to leave his mark. The most Edward has ever gotten with you is going into your room when you aren’t home, careful to not leave a trace of himself anywhere, and sneak into your room and pull out a pair of dirty underwear that still reeks of you. He’s hidden in your closet and watched you undress yourself, watched how you let your hands roam your body and breathe heavily into the air. It’s unnerving how you don’t check in any nooks or crannies, but a blessing for him. He’ll enter your home and rub himself over your items, jerking himself onto your clean clothing, defiling every inch of your home in him, leaving everything in its place and when he gets home with you, he buries your face into a pillow that he’s already used.

He hates how clingy he is with you. It’s pathetic. He’s on top of you rubbing himself over, he’s not even kissing you anymore, he’s just rubbing himself over you. It’s desperate and gross, his mouth wetting at your neck to suck a bruise over your skin, hands pinching and clawing at your belly, giving harsher thrusts when you whine. His hands are over your breasts, pinching at your nipples and twisting them harshly to hear you whine all over again, to hear you curse and squirm underneath him. It’s uncomfortable in the room- too hot, too small, too tense for him to do anything other than rub himself over you. He absolutely loves fucking you. He loves to just hold your body close and leave a trail of wet kisses over your body. He wants to feel you, needs to be buried deep in you and stay there, have you warm his cock and take in the feeling that you’d let someone so vile and righteous to taint your body. Sometimes, he wishes that he could tie you up and leave you in his bedroom, and visit when he feels the world is a bit too much.

Looking at your sex is difficult, it’s just far too much. How you throb, glisten and drool with arousal- all for him- makes his head dizzy. He’s allowed to touch you, and he does so roughly, and poorly. He can make a bomb from scraps, but pleasing you is far too advanced for him, he licks broad strokes, and lets his spit coat all of you in some sort of primal way. He’s obsessed with your scent, pulling you close to him and shame has already left his body when he takes his time inhaling you, leaving his spit coat your sex and biting at the inside of your thighs, at the space too close to where your sex lies. Evidently, he prefers for you to pleasure him, to wrap your lips around his cockhead, and lap at his semen. It does something to him, to see you on your knees before him, spit and arousal coating your chin and mouth in a glistening veil, moaning and grabbing onto his soft thighs with your nails marking him in red crescents. You’re just so pretty when you’re on your knees, he can’t help but want to thrust into you, to hear you choke around him, to finish deep down your throat and hear you sputter out a cough when he’s finally released you. 

It’s no surprise that he’s rough. It isn’t so much that he’s trying to be mean, he just can’t help it. He’s watched you at work. Of course, you have to make ends meet, so he doesn’t blame you when you lean over to pick up something on the floor, or let men touch your thigh and curve their hand inside, he has to bear it until he can get them alone. He’s not a mindless killer, but he is possessive, and there’s fear in him that you’d leave him for the next best thing, for someone to sweep you off your feet and provide for you. It’s after those thrills of kills, that he’s rough, pounding into you without any regard, clawing and biting at your skin, desperate to hear you cry his name and see tears in your eyes. He needs to be rough with you, so when you go to work the next day, you have to wear something underneath your work shirt to hide all the love bites. He wants it so you can’t look at your body without thinking of him. 

Of course, he cares for you, he cherishes you so much, he loves you so much. But he's negligent and selfish in bed. Maybe it’s because it’s his first time and he’s so scared that you’d leave him that he’s trying to create all good memories for him, how you beg for him to cum, how you whine and roll your hips when he stops. How you slap his chest and  lock your legs around him, pleasuring yourself when it’s clear that he’s just treating you like a sex doll. Edward can be so kind, but being deprived of any human touch has tarnished him. It’s made him selfish, seeking out his own pleasure, riding his second wave when you’ve only reached your first. When he rolls over beside you, spent and exhausted, but cock still up and red tipped, he has you ride him, hungry to feel you twitch around him. He wants nothing more than to fuck you, for you to fuck him.

[playgroundeyes]

chat do you reckon my teachers are collectively sick of seeing MCR lyrics everywhere I've been

[loverscrossmp3]

happy belated, lily. hope you make ur bf laugh a billion times more in the afterlife

[trickstersaint]

i only accept direct apologies // july 2022

[suntails]

unapproachably pretty

[urdreamgirls-dreamgirl]

part one part two

Hawkins, Indiana Summer 1995

Steve stares down into the glowing red center of the world. Heat rolls off the gash in the earth in waves. The smell of rotting is stronger here. He’d gone and done a perimeter check of downtown on foot before returning to the place in front of City Hall. He hadn’t found any other gates, no breaks in the asphalt, no cracking brick or crumbled stone. He hadn’t run into anyone else. Hawkins had been abandoned, fast.

Sometimes, now that he doesn’t have the gin to numb his sleep, Steve has these nightmares. They’re the same nightmares he’d been having back in ’86, the same nightmares he’d had for years since they’d first encountered Vecna. It’s the same nightmare, always. Nothing ever changes, nothing ever shifts. It starts slow, a sparkling rain on the pavement, steam rising hot into the air. The sky is always dark, no stars, no moon, clouds dense and angry. He walks through the streets of Hawkins and then the whole world starts to shake.

The world starts to shake as Steve walks past Melvald’s, past the diner where he’d kissed Eddie for the first time, past the two screen movie theater where Jonathan Byers had punched him in the face. There’s nothing for him to hold on to, his sneakers have no traction on the wet pavement. He falls, he drifts, he slides, until he’s at a crack in the world, right down the center of Hawkins, burning bright and red. 

He falls, he drifts, he slides until his hands are gripping at the edge. He’s trying to haul himself back up, but the whole world is still shaking, it’s still damp from the sparkling rain. It’s slippery, hard to hold, but he keeps his grip.

And then, deep in the crack in the world, Steve Harrington hears a voice.

It doesn’t sound like anything at first. Just the slow rumble of the whole world shaking. But then, there it is again.

Deep in the crack in the world, Steve Harrington hears a ghost and loses his grip.

And then he wakes up.

He can never identify the voice, doesn’t know who it is that speaks to him from the center of the world. A part of him doesn’t want to know, doesn’t want to examine it too closely. He thinks he wouldn’t like what he found.

~*~

Indianapolis, Indiana Spring 1987

Steve wakes up from a nightmare, sweating and shaking. He remembers burning, he remembers red. He doesn’t remember anything else. He doesn’t need to.

He feels Eddie’s arms tighten around him.

“Nightmare?” Eddie mumbles against the sweaty skin of Steve’s neck, before planting a small, sweet kiss there.

“Yeah,” Steve whispers. His voice is shaky, his chest feels hollow.

“Wanna talk about it?” Eddie asks, sounding more alert as he shifts their positions, pulling so Steve is on his back and Eddie is leaning over him.

Steve looks up into Eddie’s face, into his big brown eyes full of genuine concern. 

“No,” Steve says, reaching up to curl his fingers into the front of Eddie’s t-shirt. “Just want you.” He pulls Eddie towards him and doesn’t miss the way Eddie smiles, just before their lips brush.

Steve is held safe in Eddie’s arms for the rest of the night.

~*~

Indianapolis, Indiana Fall 1991

Steve has been home from the coffeeshop for about an hour. He’s showered and tidied up the living room. He’s sitting on the couch in silence when there’s a knock on the door.

He swings the front door open without looking in the peephole. He knows who it is. Eddie smiles at him from the other side of the apartment’s threshold, soft and a little sad.

“Hey, Stevie,” Eddie says, so softly that Steve almost has to lean in to hear him. He feels himself sway into Eddie’s space before he catches himself.

“Hey.” Steve tries to get his voice to sound level, to sound unaffected. Thinks he manages it, from the look on Eddie’s face. “Boxes are in the guest room.” Steve steps out of the way so Eddie can move past him into the apartment. Their shoulders brush and Steve wants to die.

Eddie looks the same, his hair a little longer maybe. His nails are painted black and he’s got more piercings in his ears, but he’s still got the same leather jacket, the same big black boots on his feet. Steve’s mouth feels dry, his throat tight. His hands feel hollow. His fingertips ache with the effort it takes not to reach out and touch.

Eddie had called him last week. The band had just finished up their first national tour, opening for a band much bigger than them. They’d been promoting their debut album. Steve had been hearing about it non-stop from Dustin and Robin, before he’d had to beg them to stop talking about it. With the money he’d made from the tour and the album launch, Eddie had been able to get a place out in LA, something of his own. He’d called Steve to see about getting the last of his things, the odds and ends he’d left behind.

Eddie walks through the space like he lives there still. Steve feels his heart squeeze as Eddie pushes open the door of what used to be Robin’s room, before she’d graduated in the spring and moved across the country. Before she’d left, too. 

“Need any help?” Steve asks from the doorway. There’s only two boxes, but Steve is nothing if not polite.

“Nah, Greg’s got the car running downstairs,” Eddie tells him. Steve vaguely remembers Greg, the band’s bass player, from the shows he’d gone to when the band had still been playing at dive bars all over Indy. He remembers the way Greg’s eyes had always lingered on Eddie, trailed after him as Eddie went to get drinks from the bar or excused himself to go to the bathroom. Steve has to bite his tongue so he doesn’t say anything pathetic.

Steve watches as Eddie squats and lifts the boxes effortlessly, one stacked on top of the other. He moves out of the way so Eddie can move down the hallway, back towards the front door. He waits there, for Steve to open the door for him. Steve doesn’t move.

“Wait, I—” Steve has no plan, doesn’t know what might come out of his mouth. He just knows that there’s desperation coursing under his skin, through his veins, at the thought that this might be the last time that Eddie Munson will ever be here, in this apartment they’d chosen together. He can’t bear the thought that he will never know Eddie Munson again. He feels like his lungs are collapsing, like he can’t possibly suck enough air inside himself. His hand lifts in the space between them, like he might reach out toward where Eddie stands. 

“Steve,” Eddie sighs, shifting the boxes in his hands and taking half a step backward. “Don’t do this, okay? I, uh. I can’t do this. Not now.”

Steve feels the prickle of tears in his eyes, but he nods, numbly. He knows he’s missed his chance, that he let fear overrule everything else.

He doesn’t say anything else. He just grips the doorknob in his sweaty hand and opens the door for Eddie. He watches Eddie as he steps out of their apartment for the last time, watches as Eddie walks down the hallway. When he reaches the stairs, Eddie turns for one last look.

“See you around, Harrington,” he says. There’s no smile on his face. He stares for a long moment before he takes the first step downward. A second later, he’s gone.

Steve stands in his doorway for a long time after that, eyes trained on the last place where he’ll ever see Eddie Munson.

~*~

Hawkins, Indiana Summer 1995

Steve is still staring down into the center of the world when the earth starts to shake. It feels so familiar when it starts that he’s almost resigned to it. The rain starts then too, heavy and hot. It feels like burning blood when it hits the skin of his face and his bare arms in his t-shirt. Steve looks up into the sky, squinting against the water pouring down, but he sees nothing. It’s all black, only darkness. It makes the crack through the center of the world glow impossibly brighter.

Steve’s got hiking boots on, which offer more traction than his sneakers. He manages to stay upright, for the most part, as the ground beneath him continues to quake.

But then he hears it. It’s the voice from his dreams, the one he’s tried not to examine too closely. It’s coming from the center of the world, the gash spread out in front of him. Steve swallows thickly, feels saliva pool in his mouth. There’s a painful lump in his throat, his chest feels hollow, and his fingertips ache where his grips his nail bat so tightly he think it might snap in half.

The voice calls out and that’s when the earth starts to shift, tilting sideways, and Steve has nothing but his nail bat to hold on to. His feet slide against the pavement until he’s there, just on the edge of the center of the world. The ground tips again, pushing him over the edge. With his nail bat in one hand and the other scrambling against the slippery wet pavement, Steve Harrington dangles above the burning red center of the world. The heat envelops him, humid and oppressive, until he can’t breathe. He holds on, tight, his fingernails cracking against the sparkling asphalt.

“Steve,” Eddie Munson’s voice calls to him from the crack in the world. “Steve, come find me.”

And then Steve falls. 

part four part five AO3 link

~*~

Oop okay well inspiration strikes again! I think I have an idea for two more parts for this lil guy :) Thank you to everyone who reblogged and commented on the last two parts!! I appreciate it so much and it encouraged me to think a lil deeper abt this story, so thank you so much for all your kind words. 

Btw if you like the vibes of this, my multi-chapter fic “sorry about the blood in your mouth (i wish it was mine)” is written in the same style (nonlinear narrative, future fic, post-breakup; I think that one is less depressing though and has a happy ending! (not sure how this will end yet, sorry!)).

Taglist (I hope I got everyone, sorry if I missed you! also sorry if I tagged you mistakenly): @starlight-archer @sly-bananabread @eddiemunsonswife @renaissan-vvitch @gamerdano @n0-1-important @orangeandthefairroadkill @hollysimone @grtwdsmwhr @spkdnailbats @fabledanzel @and-say

[cbk1000]

@aemelia is standing over me cracking a bullwhip and forcing me to write about two morons having sex on a luxury train, so here's another little preview of that. The other two previews posted earlier can be found here and here.

But Merlin ruined it for him, by anticipating what had been a brilliant plan, and therefore one which ought to have been safely out of the reach of his brain. All morning Arthur avoided him by moving swiftly along to another car when he saw the dark head entering his, and answering Morgana’s Where the hell are you texts with, Sorry, you must have just missed me till she gave up even sending them. 

Then when everyone disembarked at the village, he hurried back to their room, and found Merlin sat on the scene of the crime. He froze. Merlin was fiddling the phone in his hand all round, but looking up steadily at him, with unrelenting eye contact. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Arthur stuck his hands in his pockets. “I just came back for a shower.”

“Yeah, I figured. That’s why I’m here. Thought you might not get off the train with everyone else, considering the fact that I haven’t seen you all morning even though we share a room and we’re on a train with very limited hiding places.”

Arthur shifted from foot to foot. “I wasn’t hiding, I was having a chat with that couple from California.”

“Oh yeah?” Merlin raised an eyebrow. “So you were stationary, in one spot, chatting to this couple, and I missed you every time I went through every car looking for you? That’s interesting.”

Arthur looked away.

Merlin sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Look. I can ask Gwaine if he’ll switch rooms. I could stay with him, and you with Morgana.”

“And how are you going to explain why we’re switching rooms?”

“I’ll just say you snore and I forgot my earplugs. Morgana has those earbuds that play white noise or whatever. She’ll be fine.”

“Well, I won’t; I can’t stay with Morgana. We’ll kill one another.”

“Fine, then I’ll stay with Morgana.”

“You’re going to share a bed with Morgana?”

“We’re both adults. We can platonically share a bed.”

“Yes, you certainly have a stellar track record of that,” Arthur pointed out, waspishly. 

“Well, Morgana’s dating Gwaine, and she’s a lot smarter than you, so I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Merlin snapped.

“What do you mean ‘smarter than me’, like it’s my fault, when it was your idea!” Arthur cried.

“Well, you could have said, ‘No, Merlin, don’t suck my dick’ like a reasonable person. I’d been drinking and I hadn’t been laid in a while, so you had our brain cell, and you should have used it.”

Arthur frowned down at him. “So you did it because you were drunk?” 

Merlin rubbed his face with both hands. “I wasn’t drunk drunk, but do you think I would have done that sober? When you said you’d never come from a blowjob, the alcohol took over my mouth, and I just blurted that out, and then when you didn’t tell me to fuck off like a sane person, my dick took over from there.”

“So you’re saying that you, an entire, whole, adult man, are not in charge of your own actions?”

“When I haven’t had sex in over six months and someone offers to blow me, no, I am not in charge, my penis is.” He was striving for a light tone, but must have seen on Arthur’s face that it was not landing as he had meant it to; that he was doing more harm than good: all of which was being done to Arthur’s throat, which felt suddenly as hot, and tight, and tremulous as it had in the dining car. He rubbed his face again. “Look, you have to stop avoiding me. We’ve been mates over a decade, and we’ve never let being dumbarses fuck it up before. So either we switch rooms, or one of us kips on the sofa, but we don’t tiptoe round one another, or duck into another car all week every time we see the other one coming, because we were horny.” He clasped his hands between his knees. “It’s just getting off. Stimulation is stimulation and all that. I mean, it was a bit gay for you to blow me, but other than that, you’re fine.”

Arthur scowled at him.

“You kept your socks on, and that’s the first rule of ‘no homo.’”

“Oh, is it?” Arthur snapped. “Well, you had yours off, so what does that mean?”

“That I’m comfortably bisexual and I don’t have to have a crisis about getting a blowjob from a man.”

“I rather think the problem is specifically which man gave you the blowjob.”

[anticidic]

priorities: sitting and staring at a wall and refusing to keep writing until I finally come up with a title for this fic

[the-bees-patella]

Summarize 5 WIPs badly!

Thanks to @cacodaemonia for the tag! I had a lot of fun doing these, although they all ended up formatted like headlines...who can say why.

Autistic IT specialist force-femmes disabled coworker; hardware deficiencies at play

Army man harangued into galactic terrorism by ghost boyfriend

Here’s how this space wizard saved a species from extinction…with his butt

New study shows limitations of tactical assholery in hostage situations; local commander calls for further research

Workplace romance: flirty fun, or an inexcusable abuse of power that transgresses all caveats and good intentions?

Bonus:

6. Dear Abby: our boyfriend has fully drunk the fascism juice. How hard do we have to rail him to fix this?

No pressure tags: @elthadriel, @dreamerinsilico, @chaotic-plotter, @trudemaethien, @mimsiical, and anyone else who'd like to play!

[toadstool32]

Everytime I think about the length of my comic I'm like wow sunk cost fallacy my good friend sunk cost fallacy. Why are u 900 panels long

[serve-cunt]

i know that the carlitos/juanki fic brewing in ur brain is delicious. the vision is there. i'll be waiting for that glorious moment along with the other three believers

beautiful anon... kind anon... you underestimate my ability to rotate 9k words in my head for weeks without ever writing a single one down...

[mystically-yours]

Me and this Google Doc be having a staring competition

[binglepringle]

Procrastinating on your main fic in favor of writing a fic where you compare your MC to a bug >>>

[cream-and-tea]

if anyone was wondering i am still writing judge and calliope oneshot its just been taking a long time bc i've hit the part of the story that makes me have to get up and pace around my room every few sentences at least

[crunchycrystals]

lord forgive me for how long this fic is gonna be. and how much ill hate it in like 5 years