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littledead-ridinghood · 2 years

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This is part two of Jason crying over Bruce, but this time centering around his childhood. To note: All but one of these Jason's crying moments here are in relation to Bruce rather than Bruce actively going out of his way to make Jason miserable, but isn't that part of the parent-child relationship experience? adjacently fucking up your kid emotionally?

[part 1]

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Starting off strong with Jason's pre-crisis adoption arc! This is the arc where we get Bruce saying he'd literally give up all his possessions and money to be able to keep Jason around when he and Natalia are going full divorce parental rights mode over the boy. So, Jason's been put in an orphanage for the time being as the whole legal side gets sorted out and both he and Bruce are heartbroken. Jason spends a lot of time crying and being morose over the fact in the orphanage (panel one: being taken away. Panel two: no tears, but he misses Bruce a lot. Panel three: Jason's covering up the fact that he is crying) Wild arc. Bruce almost throws hands in a court of law. Jason is very unsure of his place in people's lives, is kinda shy & sensitive, and even has a slight stutter to match his apprehensiveness at times, but he loves being with bruce and calls the manor home. Also interesting to note, this arc comes in two halves. The introduction of Nocturna then a break where Jason becomes robin to which we then fall back immediately into Natalia now including a complicated custody battle.

this isn't a crying photo, but it's important to me. In this arc we're also given this panel of Bruce and Jason hugging and look at their size difference :( baby :( makes me think about, if comics wanted to hurt me more, how when bruce hears Jason's voice he naturally looks down sometimes instead of remembering that they're almost at eye level AND HE CALLS HIM HIS SOOOOONNNNN AND DC ACKNOWLEDGES ADOPTED PARENT_CHILD RELATIONSHIPS THST:S HID FATHER whhhhyhyhhyhyhyyyy sorry that got away me, way too much pathos, but also, come on!

Moving on to more robin days, still pre-crisis, but it's that weird mix of turning into post-crisis, it's almost right on the line, we have Jason breaking down in tears over fear toxin which makes him see hallucinations of Bruce yelling at him about how "Jason failed him". It's So Sad that in this story Bruce's greatest fear (which he used to overpower the fear toxin) is Jason dying and Jason's greatest fear is failing Bruce and then both ended up playing out in comics years later (Jason dying and Bruce believing Jason is a "failure" Bat's words, not mine). lots of feelings over it. See, what modern writers try to do today with Jason's robin years will never live up to the OG. What I mean by that is the entirety of Jason's pre and post-crisis run is soooooo foreboding and Jason has a lot of near-death experiences (usually due to Bruce's own short sightings that modern writers try to emulate through the trope that Jason isn't good enough to be Robin). What makes it so heart-sinking-to-your gut in his OG run is that in these comics, the idea for Jason to die, isn't an actual idea yet. And, now, looking back, it's this sickening accidental foreshadowing that modern writers lay on too thick, too "obviously he's going to die:/" when No, He Wasn't. Here: it's not an idea; Nowadays, it's the actual canon therefore it doesn't have the same effect as we already know the tragedy. It interferes with modern stories as they focus too much on his demise rather than his character.

here's one of Jason's near-death experiences. This is the arc before we fully switch to post-crisis!Jay. Bruce accidentally contributes to shooting Jason, in park row, a few blocks away from where they'll soon meet again once more by two stray gunshots.

No, Jason's not crying, but I think he would be if he wasn't half dead on the ground. Like the last part, this one's more implied. Anyway, the irony of Jason's almost dying in park row where Bruce's parents did by the same weapon, also to the chest, but this time the roles of parent and child are reversed though Bruce is still the only sole survivor *mwah* Art! Furthermore, the irony of Jason being reborn and rebirth in the alley mirroring his rise from the grave ~20 years later. Jason's entire existence can be encapsulated by full circles, foils, and parallels. I love it.

Moving on to older Jason! In Lost Days, Jason has a lot of breakdowns. He is very much not okay at all during the arc. Here, he's around 16 years old and this is after Talia's conversation with a catatonic!Jason where she tells him how Bruce misses him very much and loved nothing more than him and his older brother. It's an incredibly significant moment because the tear once again confirms that Jason is somewhat aware of his surroundings. Another moment would be when Jason fights all the League warriors but doesn't defend himself against Talia meaning he is aware of who he's fighting and has trust held for the woman. But, even then, he didn't have any emotional reaction to being slapped, he just took it without argument. The tear is significant because it's the first emotion Talia has seen this shell of Jason express, one of sadness, one over Bruce. Even in this state of a waking coma, Jason still has a deep love for Bruce and it hurts so much to hear that the man missing him.

Continuing the Lost Days theme! Jason has taken his swim in the pit and is coming to terms with all the missing time. The first two pictures are one right after each other where Jason finds out the Joker is still alive and Bruce continues the cycle of just putting the clown in jail

The third photo is of Jason having a mental breakdown on his way to Gotham over the fact that so many others died after him--He Was Dead--and it meant nothing, the joker was still killing

Jason's an angry crier! We see it here! We see it in UtRH! We even see it in the webtoon! It makes me think of that tumblr post, wet anger is terrible because it shows the other person that they got to you, and you cared--Still care. Shows you have a stake in the conversation, in the relationship, of what happened Really Fuckin' Mattered to you and Really Fuckin' Got to you. All of which links back to the sensitive side of Jason as well as how he tries to push down the fact that he cares for others and has a stake in the survival of the world (emphasized clearly in him saving the entirity of London and making sure the Arab students didn't get racially targeted and blamed even though Jason says he doesn't care about the world). Here though, it's the overwhelming emotion that he believed he mattered and Jay feels as though he's been sold a lie. He's angry. He's upset. He's hurt. He's miserable. He feels used.

Jason died when he was 15, was dead for 6 months and then was catatonic for another 1.5(this changes a lot bc sometimes he's catatonic on the street for 5-6 months, other times it's a year and then was catatonic in the league for another year). His last memory was of him dying, his next is his grave, and the third is the pit. For what takes over the span of 2.5 years for everyone else, happens to him in the time span of approximately 10 hours for him. Shockingly functionally for being whammed by some of three of the worst things to happen to him ever. And he still gets his throat slit soon after at the age 18 (I have the math written down somewhere, but canonically he came back to Gotham a couple months after his 18th, but even then he's technically 6 months younger than he should be due to 6 months dead and just know maybe the most streamline timelines aren't important and we should just read the stories without thought of precise age and time but I've never done it simple). damn. Someone, please ask him if he's okay. He's not. But it's the taking the time to care and ask that counts.

And, finally, to conclude Lost Days, Jason's reaction to Talia telling him that there's a new Robin.

What I've always found particularly obnoxious about how fandom treats Jason and Tim's relationship is how so many believe that Jason was absolutely seeing red, spitting blood when he found out there was a new robin, but really all he did was like...lay down and cry. That's kinda Jason's thing if you've gotten this far and haven't noticed. This also falls pretty in line with Jason's robin characterization. He's insecure about his role as both robin and Bruce's son. Even when Jason's 15, he fears he's always at risk of being replaced and being kicked out. When he finds out about Dick, Jason's first question is wondering if the older will want his role back. He never got the full support and help he need, no matter how much others did or didn't help, so when Jay's PTSD finally came knocking for its due, it's as if Jason never actually left the survival mode he lived in the entire time before Bruce. So hearing that Bruce "moved on" with a new robin, coming into the spotlight within six months of his passing (and Jason went through robin training, he knows how long it takes. He knows that that kid would've had to pop up within weeks of his murder (not to suggest Bruce wasn't hesitant about Tim going out so soon after Jason's passing), it solidifies that ever-present insecurity he's had his entire life that he's never been good enough for anything or anyone.

This one randomly hit me while writing meta, and I debated adding it because Jason isn't crying but Wow, is Bruce deliberately trying to be a dick. This one is a retcon with the age-old "You're not my dad" trope except, in a shocking twist, Absolutely shocking twist, the roles are reversed and *Bruce* says the "I'm not your father" line (something Jason has never said, mind you, towards any of the people he considers parental figures) (link here to my meta on that topic). I chose this image instead of the usual single panel because it's so much worse within the context it surrounds. When placed within its page, we, the readers, learn that this is one of the last conversations Bruce and Jason have before he runs off to Ethiopia to find his bio-mom. This is one of the last things Bruce ever tells Jason before the boy is murdered. Again, this is the retcon thing that I mentioned in the first part, these sorts of retcons don't make me feel bad for Bruce. This makes me feel bad for Jason. No wonder, after looking for a family for years, Jason would jump at the opportunity to have more. When the man he calls his father doesn't see himself as his father, Jason's desperation becomes palatable. The need to feel safe and wanted is overwhelming, especially with Jason's history of being rotated out for something "better" or "more important." Jason's relationship with Bruce is fundamentally different from all the other children because he started off by looking at Bruce as a father figure. And Jason constantly sees Bruce as Bruce first rather than Batman or compartmentalizing his own and other people's parts like Bruce does. Dick didn't want Bruce to be his father when he became his ward. This is important to their later years, when Bruce started acting like a parent, the two began to clash horribly. Tim wasn't an orphan when he became Robin and literally forged family members so he didn't have to be in relation to the Waynes. Steph would rather die than consider Bruce her dad. Cass was a grown woman compared to a child when she joined the bats. And Damian, DC believes Bruce and his father-son relationship is built in due to blood (that whole "I have one son" thing ugh). But, as seen in earlier panels, Jason did come into the manor looking for a father within Bruce (and Bruce, a son within Jason). You can ignore this retcon. Or you could not and read it as Jason being absolutely crushed at the thought that he found someone who wanted him as his kid only to hear he has been lied to this entire time. A la: like Shelia. A la: His worth lies in how well he is a "good solider"

obligatory elseworld: Once Again, Batman: White Knight! this time the original run, not the spin-off. This is the world where Bruce manages to "cure" the joker allowing him to go back to leaving as Jack Napier. The world's a little more realistic in the sense the joker's more a crazed fanboy who tortured Jason out of jealousy rather than a genocidal terrorist. On this Earth, he tortures Jason brutally in attempt to get him to reveal Bruce's identity. He's in pure misery. It's like a softer version of Arkham Knight where instead of being murdered, he is tortured (though here for substantially less time, a couple months as opposed to like 1.5-2 years in the arkhamverse), and instead of returning to the manor, Jason leaves Gotham. (It's later revealed Jason does actually go back to the manor, but he sees Bruce training the second robin (on this earth, he's the first) and feels utterly violated and replaced). So, here we have a crying Jason, tortured so thoroughly he's brought to tears over his relationship and involvement with Bruce that he reveals the bat's identity leading Jason to his freedom.

Anyway, Jason's overall character of Robin, OG run, retcons, and post-robin depictions, is characterized by heavy emotion, naivety, and hope. Personally, I feel Jaylovers would've been more lenient on DC's victim-blaming around Jason's murder if it did center more around his tendency to get overwhelmed in high-tension situations as well as how, throughout most of Jason's OG run, he is heavily portrayed as a lonely child desperate for love (his OG run says so itself. Again pulling from the introduction of Natalia arc, the narration box reads him "impatient for more love"). Though we know DC never would have done that as that makes Jason look too sympathetic. Saying "he died because he wanted to be loved" does not carry the message "he died because he was reckless" of which DC wants to re-write.

@tumblingxelian, I'm so happy you liked the last post and hope you enjoy this one too! If I've missed any panels* between Jason crying over Bruce within these two parts, please let me know, y'all. My "crying Jason" album, though extensive, is ever-growing. Again, these are just the crying in relation/because of Bruce panels sprinkled in with some of my "maybe Bruce shouldn't be a father" from my general "comic panels" album.

*I didn't add the Cheer panel because I refuse to acknowledge the story's existence I really don't agree with Jason's characterization within that story arc and believe how he got to the dream world situation is not based in his true character. The story fundamentally does not read like Jason as many aspects of, what I believe are, his core character traits are missing and I can't in good faith add a panel that reads like an OC (to *MY* interpretation of Jason). I also have a hunch that I did miss one panel from RHatO V1 when Jason's having his fever, literal acid dream, but I'm not sure. This realization is literally just hitting me now. I, for sure, missed a few BftC panels where Jason's having a mental breakdown over Dick showing him Bruce's will again. He's So Fucked up in that arc. And even though that arc doesn't read like Jason, the author admitted to wanting to write Jason as irredeemable as possible, as well as is one of the only confirmed (by the author) cases of pit mad!Jason, I say this with my chest, I like BftC better than Cheer because at least in BftC Jason is competent. Not to say I want that to be Jason's characterization, or even that I enjoy him written like that, but at least he despises the corrupt police force Bruce tries so hard to impress and that counts for something. I completely blanked on that arc and may do a follow-up part sometime in the coming weeks to see if I weed out any other panels matching the afformative guidelines.

#robin jason todd #bruce wayne #jason todd #jason todd meta #he's a bit of a crybaby and i say 'good for him. I'm surprised it's not worse'

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iszapizza · 2 years

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Started s2 of batman beyond and i have vampire terry brainworms

#batman beyond #terry mcginnis #bruce wayne #vampire terry #Aaaaaaaaa #the show keeps going except that terry is a vampire now #the devilman crybaby ost fits well with batman beyond

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escapisminacan · 2 years

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"They're the same picture"

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evilhorse · 1 year

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Hey, Sure Shot, I hear those Nazis are real crybabies.

#dc horror presents: sgt. rock vs. the army of the dead #sgt rock #U.S. army #world war two #Nazis #crybabies #true #war comics #bruce campbell #eduardo risso #dc comics #comics #2020s comics

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scorpionwins · 2 years

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Jason: I fucking hate Bruce, truly hate that bitch

Dick, fully knowing what's gonna happen next: I agree, I don't think he's trying enough

Jason, doing his best not to burst into tears on sight: If you know how he feels then why would you say that?! You're putting him in such an uncomfortable situation, you KNOW he's not happy you KNOW that he's trying-

#your honor hes a crybaby bitch #not riverdale #sometimes i feel a lot for dc #dc #batman #jason todd #dick grayson #bruce wayne #incorrect quotes #source: kuwtk #text post

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sunsetsintandem · 3 months

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I like to think that Tim has a reputation for being a crybaby amongst the batfam. Like, he will tear up in a second. Jason, Damian and Stephanie are constantly making fun of him for it. What no one has figured out yet is that Tim realized years ago that Bruce would stop lecturing him and turned into worried dad mode as soon as the crocodile tears appear.

#dc #batfam #bat brothers #batbros #batfamily #headcanon #tim drake #red robin #jason todd #red hood #damian wayne #robin #stephanie brown #spoiler #bruce wayne #batman

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misscinnamonroll16 · 4 months

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Don't mind me, just have trolls brain rot. Here are some of my headcanons

Jd and Floyd are both left handed, clay is right handed, Bruce and Branch could either way for me.

Clay was an absolutely FERAL child. No filter, bad ideas left and right, a little chaos gremlin. Boy should have been put on a leash.

Clay was also a creepy kid. Hed stare into JD and Bruce's souls in the middle of the night.

It probably goes without saying but Floyd was a crybaby. Especially when he was a baby.

Jd knows how to do magic tricks. It was a dumb skill that he learned to entertain his lil bros. But when they got older they started to think it was lame so he stopped. He still uses it when he encountered a kid on his travels

Clay once pulled one of Floyd's baby teeth out to get the quarter that the tooth fairy would leave

Until the band broke up, JD was the only one who knew how to cook.

Clay is great at math (thus why he's a CPA). So when they were still in school, Bruce and JD tried to get clay to do their math hw for them.

There were times when JD and Bruce ganged up on the younger ones and told them lies. Some of which being: they have a long lost brother, anything to do with Santa,the tooth fairy, or monsters and that you can buy babies from a special store (clay was on sale)

Johns go to greeting now that they're older is a smack on the butt for his bros

John still tries to pick up his brothers despite the fact that they are grown ass adults. Floyd's the easiest to pick up, then Branch then clay then Bruce.

Before branch, Floyd was closest to john

Jd and Bruce knew Floyd was gay before Floyd knew he was gay. They made jokes about it that went over the younger twos heads

When Floyd got into makeup, he looked like every little girl who got into her mom's makeup. Bruce caught him and helped him out the best he could despite the fact he had no idea what he was doing

Clay and Floyd also ganged up on the older two. Pranks and generally annoying younger sibling stuff.

Brandy is an only child, Bruce is not. So when their kids do something that their father did as a child, he knows what's up. Example: one or more of them put on a "show" to distract their parents while the others steal cookies out of the cookie jar. Bruce immediately knew something was up and called them out on it

That's it for now

#funny #brozone #trolls #trolls 3 #trolls band together #trolls clay #trolls headcanons #trolls john dory #bruce trolls #branch trolls #trolls brozone #trolls floyd

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bruciemilf · 1 year

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I headcanon that Bruce, specifically Battinson, cries real easily.

Not only when he's sad; It's actually then when he doesn't cry at all. He cries when he's angry, when he's overstimulated, when he's dissapointed, when scolded and feels like he just let someone down.

Everyone in his life, friends, enemies, and something grey, know this about him. It never bleeds into the Batman, thought.

But it's a well known, universal fact, that every Gothamite knows as divine truth: Bruce Wayne is a crybaby.

Naturally, He cries when happy and proud, too.

Dick learns that when he's 10, and brings back a huge canvas he borrowed (stole) from art class.

The assignment was to illustrate what made them happy. He picked Bruce.

Imagine his surprise when his foster father bursts into tears, gives him a big wet kiss on the cheek, and dashes to his cave, " DON'T LOOK AT ME!"

"...Does he do that a lot?"

Alfred, who didn't even bat an eye, " Only all the time."

Jason learns that when he's 12, holding his favorite copy of Pride and Prejudice, which is DOG EARED. This is a hardback cover, damn it!

" B! How could you! Don't you know better? Are you gonna paint over the Mona Lisa, too?!Seriously,--"

Abruptly, he stops at the first drops of water. Bruce is avoiding his eyes, broad shoulders slouched down, hands fidgeting by his sides. Expression pinched and pained. "...Forgive me."

"Okay," Why does HIS voice sound wrecked and brittle? " I'm gonna go in the time-out corner. And I won't eat any sweets tonight."

" But you love sweets... "

"No sweets! Don't make me. I'll go to sleep with no TV either."

But what really gets to people? Bruce cries when he's embarassed.

"I gotta say, B, " Clark humming, seemingly ignorant to a rather concerning wound. A faint kryptonite nausea still persists, but nothing he can't avoid. " You really saved my behind out there. Good job."

It's obvious Bruce has a doctor's hands; His hands glide stitches confidently, without nervousness, without pause. Healing. That's what Bruce was, at his core.

Still, his heart beats wildly. "...I'm glad you're okay."

Clark, for one, Is delighted. "Are those emotions? Positive ones? Are we having a moment?"

" I did an adequate job. It was nothing special."

" Oh, that's bullshit. Come on, you were amazing! Did you see the guy's face when you blocked the bullet with your batarang? Breathtaking."

"Superman. Enough."

" No, -- listen. 20 guys get their hands on kryptonite and knock me out in 10 minutes. You had them beat in FIVE. Bruce, you were wonderful, --"

He stops immediately when a velvet voice cracks, " Clark,"

He worries that maybe he pushed too much. Forced his way instead of being welcomed. An apology is hot and ready on his lips.

But.

But that cowl only hides so much. That soft, dusty red flushes down to Bruce's chest. Pink skin glows red, shiny with tears, and skilled hands shake.

Clark's heart roars. He's so, so fond of this man.

" Oh, Bruce. Oh, baby."

He can't stop smiling as he listens to Bruce whining in his neck.

#YOUR HONOR. HE IS SO. MEOW MEOW #bruce wayne #battinson #dick grayson #jason todd #batdad #dc #dcu #clark kent #superbat #text #text post #batman #writing #writing prompt #btw only bc some ppl asked me if they could use some of my ideas -- everything is open!! id love to be tagged :D

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gonnalosemydougdimmadomedamnmind · 8 months

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It's literally impossible to read bat fanfiction because it's all based off those ridiculous fanon tropes that spread like crazy and people take as fucking biblical!!!!! Dick was never a jerk to Jason when he was Robin- they got along because Dick is mature as hell and in one retelling- Jason was a jerk to him!! And when he came back as Red Hood he had literally not a single damn reason to treat Dick like shit! Not a damn one! But he did, didn't he? Cause he's the fucking asshole! How dare you make Dick grovel towards that bastard! Dick has only ever tried to help him! Reached out during his Batman run, over and over! Also- Dick never put Jason in Arkham with Joker just a few cells down???? What the fuck! The Joker and all those other fuckers had been broken out of Arkham by Black Mask already for like the whole run??? Jason went to Arkham after losing to Dick, and Gordon put him in there because One he fucking deserved it, Two the literal circumstances?? And at that point!! Arkham was fucking rehabilitated itself!! By Dick!!! Because Bruce had him go undercover there for real, and Dick was actually tortured there before he got out!! So Dick put in the work to get that shit in order to actually help people!!

Dick never chose Damian over Tim- Tim refused to engage with him over his grief, shut him out, and left of his own devices! He never told Dick his suspicions on why Bruce was alive, never! And Tim is not the one to bring Bruce back either, there's a whole team at that point! Dick learns Bruce is alive through tossing his 'dead' body into a pit and the body comes to life as a zombie. Tim didn't tell him shit! Tim is also not a little crybaby- Damian cutting his line was a fucking blip on the page, he was momentarily shocked, that was it! He put Damian on his Hit List, which is why Damian cut his line. And his first attempt at "murder" is just pushing Tim off the dinosaur statue in the cave, he didn't go all assassin on him! Also Dick wasn't even there the first incident and wasn't told about the second incident. Alfred is the one who gave Damian Robin and Dick accepted him because he saw that Damian needed help! He needed guidance! He didn't fucking fire Tim the way Bruce fired him, and fuck all of you for thinking that Tim or Jason or fucking anyone has more right over Robin than Dick Fucking Grayson! He tried to promote Tim and Tim walked off. How dare yall make Dick fucking grovel towards that bastard!!!

Jason did try to kill all three of them!! Why does everyone just gloss over that like what the fuck??? Why does he get a pass for every shitty thing he's done??? "Bad writing" stfu this is the same dude that without hesitation kills random criminals, people who deal drugs, do you know how many random ass people deal drugs??? Jason doesn't give a single shit about being his own type of hero or saving Gotham his own way, nor do the people think of him as their savior!! Are you people fucking delusional?? I saw a post that said citizens would trust Jason over CASS and I cannot Believe the hallucinations yall are seeing???

It is literally downright impossible to find fics about Dick or Damian or Cass or fucking any of them that doesn't include these literal bullshit fanon takes!!! It's impossible!!! This fandom sucks!!!! You don't even need to go buy the comics, all these popular takes have been debunked right here on tumblr!!!! Also Dick can do literally everything!! He's hypercompetent as hell, die mad about it!! Jason doesn't like Wonder Woman???? Where the fuck did that come from??? Wayne Family Adventures is not real!!! Those people could not BE more out of character!!! Look at Bruce for crying out loud!!! Yall know that man ain't act like that!

Edit: leaving this here in case anyone wonders what my hot take is towards this question I was asked: "have you considered tho, that fanon is more fun..."

Well of course fanon is more fun if you're a fan of Jason or Tim. Fanon actively caters towards those two pasty white boys. Fanon actively shits on Dick and Damian though. And for Dick? He literally never did that shit! It is all made up! It's literal character assassination?? But by the fans?? And for Damian? He was 10!!! He grew up as an assassin! He was actively trying to grow with Dick's help! How can yall see him as the bad guy?? And not the literal bad guy, (Jason), and the 17 teen year old who literally fought him back btw, (Tim), like old boy did not act victimized the way you people portray. And Jesus for Cass? Cass is just a prop in fanon. So what exactly about this should be fun to me? Like seriously.

#dc comics #batman #batfamily #dick grayson #jason todd #tim drake #damian wayne #cassandra cain #anti jason todd #anti tim drake #anti batfamily fans #fanon bullshit #bat fans suck #i hate this place!!!#cant read anything!!!#bruce wayne #my posts

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martyrbat · 2 years

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batman: the knight #6

[ID: Bruce Wayne crying after shooting someone. He throws the shotgun down and stutters out, “I d-didn't- I didn't have a choice, I-”. The man he shot warns him, “you may not even survive...” as Bruce starts to sob. END ID]

#crybaby bruce #my favourite bruce !#always just thinking of the second panel...#he has tissues built into the cowl he's still just crying #anyways. posting these because i been writing a little thing for afterwards and how he has to cover him and khoa being there #then also make the cabin look 'lived in' (oh irony) and i have him carrying his dead mentor and putting luka's fingerprints on things #before having to take care of the body and then still travel and find the next mentor in his mission because its all thats left #also some fun survivalist bruce in getting out without any supplies purely bc my blorbo is gonna suffer <333 #bruce wayne #can i apologize to myself for for rambling in my own tags #posts from the crypt #crypt's panels #c: batman: the knight | i: 6 #btk

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spidernuggets · 4 months

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Hiiii

If you don't mind could you maybe write something where Jason and reader get in argument but really it's just Jason being paranoid and accusing her of something she didn't even do, and the argument plus the fact that he doesn't believe her makes her start crying and he just like calls her a crybaby or pathetic or some stupid insult and then leaves but then he finds out she was actually telling him the truth and just how Jason would be after that, would he feel so bad that he avoids her and inadvertently makes it worse or would he immediately go beg forgiveness and apologise?

Jason Todd x Reader

"God, stop crying. This is so pathetic of you. Going off with some guy and then crawling back to me,"

The champagne flute Jason was holding in his hand looked like it was going to break as he watched you talk to some other guy across the room.

It was Stephanie's birthday, and she decided to go big and bold as she usually does each year. She used Bruce's gala hall as her birthday venue and was so excited when you told her that you'd attend.

Of course, Jason attended with you since he goes to Stephanie's birthday every year, but this year, he wasn't so pleased, especially with the way the guy touched your shoulder as you laughed at a joke that Jason presumed was the worst joke in existence.

Jason was having a conversation with another guest, but by the time he turned to see if you were still at the same spot that you were standing at, you were gone.

And so was the guy.

He walked around the hall, frantically searching for you, only imagining the worse.

Were you kidnapped? Did the guy hurt you?

But when he turned to the giant double doors, he saw you walking in. You were laughing. You came in, and you were laughing with that stupid guy.

So that's where you were? Off to who know where with some other guy? What were you doing with him? Where exactly did you go with him?

Jason's insecurities started bubbling in the pit of his stomach. He wanted to throw up. One of his worst nightmares came true. You found someone better than him.

Jason was about to storm up to you. Grab you, take you home with him. But Stephanie interrupts, grabbing a hold of his arm.

"Hey, where are you going?" She asks, beaming at him, clearly having a great time.

Jason didn't want to ruin her happiness. But to him, this was far more important.

"Sorry, Steph. I'm beat. I think I'm going to go home. Happy birthday, though," he lowly says, giving Stephanie a light, quick hug before leaving. And Stephanie caught how miserable he looked, and began to get worried.

"Yeah, and I can't believe she-" You felt a tap on your shoulder. You turn to see Stephanie with a worried look on her face.

She doesn't say anything. Instead, she just points to the dejected man leaving the hall.

Your eyes widen before saying by to you guy friend and wishing Stephanie a happy birthday before running towards your boyfriend.

By the time you catch up with him, the two of you are far from the hall.

You grab Jason by the shoulder, making him stop in his tracks.

"Jay? Why are you leaving? If you're too tired, you could've told me. I would've left with you," you said softly, testing the waters of his mood, trying not to push any buttons that might cause an outburst.

"Why would you? You seemed pretty nice and cosy next to your little guy friend," he hissed, shurgging your hand off of him.

You took offence to his comment. "Excuse me? What's that supposed to mean?"

Jason turns to face you. "It means that you don't have to deal with me anymore. Seeing as you ran off with him somewhere for a good while. What? Does he know how to show you a better time."

You couldn't believe what you're hearing. "Jason Peter Todd. If you're accusing me of something, why not just say it straight."

"Fine. You're cheating on me. That's what that was, right? Leaving me all night to talk to some freak," he spits.

Your heart breaks at his words. How can he say that to you? After all the times you've shown him nothing but your love and affection.

You laugh out of spite. "Wow. Is that really how low you think of me, Jason? You think I'm some.. some bitch that would go off to someone else who isn't you?"

That was supposed to be a rhetorical question. A question that would make Jason think about his accusations. But it took a turn.

"Yeah," he says. "Yeah maybe you are."

He didn't mean to say that. Why would he say that? He's just so angry and insecure but he didn't mean to project any of that onto you.

Usually, in times where Jason would break down like this, you'd leave, give him some space to calm down. But you're too upset to even walk away.

"How dare you!" You yell. You feel your eyes sting, and your vision starts to blur. " I've been nothing but loyal to you this whole relationship! And you have the audacity to accuse me?? That guy is just a friend that I happen to know from work!" You start to cry, your voice breaking, choking on a sob.

What you say doesn't comprehend to Jason. His head is filled with voices that won't leave him alone.

They found someone better. They're even more angry at you. They're going to leave you. They're crying to guilt trip you.

Jason rolls his eyes. "God, stop crying. This is so pathetic of you. Going off with some guy and then crawling back to me," he lowly says, sending nothing but a hateful glare to you.

What the fuck was happening. Those eyes used to look so soft and loving. Now, it's full of sadness and hatred.

Jason doesn't give you a chance to respond as he walks away. You follow him a bit, seeing him go out the doors of the manor, hopping on his bike and drive away without you.

You stood there. You felt paralysed. You sobs grew louder as you tried to muffle them, bring both hands to your face. Your tears started to ruin your makeup, and you couldn't feel like you can even stand any longer.

You were about to drop to the floor, but luckily, Stephanie and Cass were close behind you, searching for where you and Jason went off to. Stephanie held you close on the ground while Cass crouched beside you, a comforting hand on your shoulder.

After the party, Steph offered you to stay in her room. She went around the manor, looking for clothes and pyjamas that you would feel comfortable in.

You highly appreciated her kindness. But you still felt so numb and empty inside. You're still unsure what happened. Did Jason break up with you?

Stephaine, Cass, and Barbara each visited you throughout the days, checking up on you, assuring you that it wasn't your fault, that men suck, and to give Jason time to tantrum his feelings out himself.

It's been a couple of days now, magbe 2 weeks since that night. You've heard that Jason only came in at least 4 times, only to visit the BatCave for vigilante kind of meetings.

Those 4 times, all the girls have been ignoring Jason, sending him knives through their glares.

Jason came by today to drop off some files about the Riddler. He expected no one in the BatCave, but he heard someone clear their throat behind him.

He turned to see Babs, Cass, and Steph behind him, all their arms crossed and giving him a hateful look.

"What?" He said. They weren't sure if he was clueless or just didn't want to talk.

"What?? What! What the hell was that? Accusing them of cheating, are you serious?" Steph yelled at him, makimg Jason slightly wince. Everyone knows it's bad when Stephanies pissed off.

"If they weren't, then where the hell did they go?" he mutters.

Babs pinched the bridge of her nose. "News flash, genius. There was an open bar outside the hall. The two just webt to grab a drink."

"Oh yeah? So why were they so chummy with some rando?"

"Oh my go- That's their coworker, Kev! And also my friend! We all hung out with him a couple of times, man! Plus, he has a boyfriend!" Stephanie yells, whipping out her phone, showing a pic of her, you, Kev, and another guy beside Kev, who was kissing him on the cheek.

After stuffing her phone back in her pocket, Jason looked like a kicked puppy.

"Steph's room. Now." Barb says. Jason slightly nods and heads out the cave, going up to Steph's room.

He knocks three times on the door. He heard no answer. And there was no answer the next three times he knocked.

He slowly opened the door to peek and saw a lump in the blankets on the bed.

A small smile grows on his lips as he saw you peacefully sleeping. But when he crouches beside the bed to take a closer look at you, he takes note of your puffy eyes and tear-stained cheeks, and his heart broke.

You shifted in your sleep, your body turning away from him.

"I didn't say you can come in," you muttered.

Jason sighs. "I know. Will you look at me... please?"

You scoff. "This is so pathetic of you. Accusing me of cheating and then crawling back to me," you say, your voice hoarse as you mocked his words from that night.

"I know, darling. It is. It is pathetic. I had no right to accuse you. I was... I was so jealous. I thought you finally found someone better than me. That you'd finally leave me. I thought that if I left first, it wouldn't hurt as much. But it still did. It hurt so much," his voice started to break, and tears started travelling down his cheek. "I don't expect you to forgive me. But I'm so sorry, my darling. I love you so much."

One second turns to two. Then a minute goes by. One long, long minute. Jason tries hard not to sob in front of you as he gets up and begind to take his leave, harshly wiping his tears.

"It's kinda cold," you say quietly. Jason turns to you. You can see the confusion on his face. But you can also see his red nose and wet cheeks.

You lift the blanket from the empty spot beside you. "You coming in or what?" You ask. This makes Jason break into another sob, quickly wiping the tears away from his face as he awkwardly takes the empty spot beside you.

He wraps his arms around you as you nuzzle yourself into his chest.

"I'm sorry," he says once more, his voice cracking.

"I don't know if I can forgive you yet, Jay," you say. "But right now, I just want to be with you." Jason sniffles, burying his face to the crown of your head as you placed a light kiss to his Adam's apple.

"As much as this is cutely bitter-sweet, if you two are gonna cuddle, do it in Jason's room. I will not have couple cooties all over my bed," Steph says out of nowhere. Both your heads look over to the door where you see Babs, Steph, and Cass standing where Cass awkwardly waves.

"Yeah, yeah, we're going," you say, getting up, pulling Jason with you.

332 notes · View notes

stevesbestgirl · 1 year

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Their Girl - Game Day

Soft!Daddy!Stucky X Little!F!Reader

Warnings: age regression, brief descriptions of food, passive alcohol consumption (nothing major), reader gets overstimulated, younger than usual regression, crybaby queen reader, reader’s hand gets swatted, but no real violence

4275 words

A/N: This is part of Season 2 of Their Girl! Season 2 is still in progress and won’t be posted until it’s finished, but there is a new character in this part that hasn’t technically been introduced yet. Rest assured, the remaining pieces will come in time, but it’s Super Bowl Sunday here in the U.S., so enjoy!

"Papa, I don't wanna watch football," you pouted as Steve pulled a Giants jersey over your head.

He cupped your chin, "Can I tell you a secret?" You gave a solemn nod and he cracked a half smile, brushing his thumb over the line of your jaw, "I don't really care about football either. But it makes Daddy happy and helps him get along with Uncle Tony. Do you think you can help me?"

"Can I take my game with me?"

Steve pressed his mouth into a thin line; he should have expected that. "Yes." Your face split into a grin, but Steve held up a finger, "But we're staying until the end of the game. And if I hear any complaining-"

You shook your head, "I won't."

He tapped your nose, "Good girl. Now let's get going." He hoisted you up on his hip, grabbing your backpack with his other hand.

You leaned out to watch him scoop it up, a curious look on your face. Steve chuckled, "What is it, sweetheart?"

Your cheeks warmed, "Daddy is strong." You never got tired of how easily he carried you around.

He squeezed your leg, "You like it when I carry you around?" You buried your face in his shoulder in lieu of answering. He pressed a kiss into the top of your head, "Good thing I like carrying my baby around too."

You smiled, still feeling shy as Bucky came into view, leaning against the couch. "Look at my girl," he grinned, pushing off and striding toward you.

As Bucky reached for you, Steve spun you away, clearing his throat and puffing out his chest. Bucky grinned, changing course to cup the back of Steve's neck, "And my guy, of course."

Steve rolled his eyes, "Sure thing, Buck."

Bucky pulled him in for a kiss anyway. "Now c'mere, you," Bucky held his arms out and Steve handed you over. "Are you ready, doll?"

"Did you get my game, Papa?"

"Got it," Steve held it up before he zipped it up inside the backpack.

The three of you headed to the rec room, which Steve had promised would have fun things to do.

You could smell the rec room before Bucky even opened the door; the scent of pizza and chicken wings wafted out. The sound of chatter followed, growing exponentially louder as Bucky opened the door.

Inside, Peter and Wanda were making a racket at the foosball table. Tony, Thor, Loki, Nat and Bruce were seated at the ring of sofas that centered around the enormous television. To your surprise, there was another adult present, seated on the opposite end of Tony's sofa. It was your new friend from the office, Stephen Strange. You offered a shy wave, your comfort around him having dwindled since your last meeting.

"Thought you guys were gonna miss kickoff," Tony noted.

"It took a little bit of convincing to get everybody here," Bucky grimaced, setting you down.

Bruce held out an arm for a hug and you climbed onto the sofa next to him, tucking underneath and into his side, "Hi Bruce."

"Hey kiddo, how's it going?" You shrugged. "That bad, huh?"

"I don't like football."

"Why not?"

"Too much yelling."

He grimaced, "People get excited, huh?" You nodded. "What if you got excited too? Would it be okay then?"

You shrugged again, "Maybe."

"Why not give it a try? You might like it."

You stayed quiet; you didn't know if you wanted to like it.

Loki caught your eye from the sofa across from you, drawing a chuckle from Bruce, "Go on."

You hopped across the aisle to climb up next to Loki, "Do you like football?"

He shrugged, "Would be better with weapons."

You glanced at the TV again; you didn't think weapons were the problem, but you weren't going to argue with Loki. As one team kicked the ball all the way down the field to start the game and the crowd went crazy, you couldn't help but think that your daddies could have done a better job. But they were both watching the screen, even Steve, who had said he wasn't interested.

"Did you bring your game?" Loki's gaze flicked from the screen to the group of adults, back to you.

You nodded, "In my backpack."

The corner of his mouth lifted, "Do you want to play?"

Glancing at Steve, you nibbled at your lower lip; it might be a bit early to ask. But you slipped off the couch and trotted over to Steve, hands clasped behind your back, "Papa, can I play my game with Loki please?"

He gave a soft chuckle, his gaze flicking to Loki on the other sofa, "It hasn't even been ten minutes, sweetheart."

You glanced over your shoulder at the TV, "But it's screen time, right?" You let your lip jut out a tiny bit, shuffling between Steve's legs.

A little crease appeared between Steve's brows as Tony snorted a laugh, "She's not bad."

"You two can play, but not the whole time, alright angel?" Steve offered, ignoring Tony. He tipped his chin at the backpack by the sofa, "Go ahead."

You beamed, "Thank you!" Scuttling over, you rifled through the bag, pulling out your game and clamoring back onto the sofa beside Loki.

"Wait, I wanna play!" Wanda's voice piped up from the foosball table, a note of resentment at not being invited in her voice.

"Me too!" Peter echoed, scrambling to follow as Wanda grabbed her own game and climbed up next to you.

Shuffling over to make room for her, you bumped shoulders with Loki, making him glance sharply away.

"Sorry," you murmured, pulling in to try giving him more space as Peter squeezed in between you and Wanda, crowding the sofa further.

"It's fine."

"Babydoll, do you want to sit with me?" Bucky patted his lap.

Nodding, you disentangled yourself from the others and scurried over to Bucky, who pulled you into his lap, wrapping his arm around you and pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

You looked to Loki, "Are you ready?"

He nodded, though he looked a bit displeased, his mouth pressed into a thin line as Peter and Wanda chattered beside him.

You played, but Loki no longer seemed in the mood for it. He kept glancing at Thor as though he wanted to go home, but Thor, whose face was painted and had a plate piled with food, didn't seem to be going anywhere soon.

When the Giants made a big play, the room exploded with noise, even Bucky, who was usually so soft-spoken. He threw his free hand in the air in a fist, "YES, WHAT A THROW!"

You tensed, squeezing your eyes closed as though it would muffle the sound. For once, Bucky didn't notice- he was focused on the game. Stifling the threat of a pout, you set your game down and wriggled out of Bucky's grasp, expecting him to protest. But he let you go, his fingers grazing your arm absently.

Since you'd already gotten up, you had to find something to do. You slunk over to the food table, appraising the snacks, but you weren't really hungry. Glancing over at your daddies, you wanted them to notice you. Usually, they were so attentive that you couldn't hide anything from them, but today you couldn't seem to compete.

"Too loud?"

You'd been so busy watching Steve and Bucky that you hadn't noticed Peter trotting up to you; it looked like game time had been abandoned. Wanda was snuggling in with Natasha and Loki was speaking urgently in Thor's ear.

You hesitated before nodding; Steve had said no complaining. But Peter gave a knowing nod, "Me too." He held out a hand, "C'mon."

You followed him over to the closet. Inside, board games, blankets, and spare snacks filled the shelves. Eyeing a thick comforter at the very top, Peter climbed the shelves with ease, never wavering as he pulled the blanket out with one hand and tossed it down, following with two others before leaping from the top to land on the newly cushioned floor.

You watched him wide-eyed, breathing a soft, "Wow," as Peter grinned up at you from his dismount.

He began spreading the blankets out in a dense pile on the floor, carefully closing the closet door to muffle the noise as another cheer went up from the sofa area.

Once he was satisfied with his nest, he fixed a serious gaze on you, "I'm gonna go get our stuff. I'll be right back."

He grabbed the door knob, but you touched his hand, "Wait, um," your cheeks flushed with warmth, "Could you get my paci from my backpack?"

Peter smiled and nodded before disappearing, closing the door behind him. You decided it was kind of nice in here; the door muffled the sound nicely and the blankets didn't even smell like a closet. You took another from the shelf, wrapping yourself up as Peter returned, slyly slipping back in and closing the door without a peep.

"Here, pretty girl," he said with earnest enthusiasm as he gave you your things: your game, your paci, and your sippy cup, also from your backpack. He also gave you a cookie from the snack table and a pair of blue headphones.

"I don't like loud noises sometimes either," he said nonchalantly, as though that explained everything.

"Thank you," you murmured, suddenly feeling shy at his attention. Peter was always nice to you, but this was different. He was looking at you the way small children often looked at babies, or children smaller than them; like he was honor-bound to make sure you were cared for.

Part of you wanted to reject his help; you didn't want to be the baby of the group, but you supposed Peter knew what that was like too. So you slid the headphones over your ears, muffling the sounds of the game even further, before you put your paci in and played your game.

Never being allowed to play your game for this long at home, you lost yourself in it. It wasn't until the closet door opened, Tony on the other side, that you remembered where you were.

"Found them. What are we doing, playing Seven Minutes in Heaven?" He smirked, "I get next round."

Feeling extra small, you just stared up at him, eyelashes fanning your cheeks as you blinked in the bright light.

"It was too loud, Daddy," Peter explained, placing himself resolutely between you and Tony.

"Pete, you can't-"

"Tony found them, Steve, in the closet," Bucky was calling back over his shoulder. Peering over Tony's shoulder, his expression melted into a smile, "What are you doing in there, babydoll?" Registering the doe-eyed look on your face, he gave you an easier question, "You comfy?"

Nodding, a contented smile peeked out from behind the pacifier.

Peter didn't budge from his place, "See? She's comfy. We're having fun!" His fists were balled up, even though no grown ups had demanded the closet be vacated.

Steve appeared over Bucky's shoulder, "What is she doing in-" Much like Bucky, Steve instantly softened his tone at the sight of you swaddled up and dewy eyed, "What are you doing in there, angel?" Bucky murmured something in Steve's ear before turning his attention back to you, "It's halftime, princess, do you want to come out for some pizza?" He paused to placate Peter, "You two can come back when the game starts again, if you want."

Peter nodded adamantly, but it was your nod Bucky was waiting for. You were feeling slow, like Bucky's string of words needed to be untangled before you understood what he'd asked you.

With a soft whisper in Peter's ear, Tony guided him back to the party, leaving Steve and Bucky with you. Steve knelt in the doorway, offering a hand, "You hungry, sweetness?"

You blinked at him once before messily untangling the nest of blankets you'd buried yourself in and clamoring over to his hand. But instead of accepting his help standing, you raised both arms, "Up?"

Steve grinned, hoisting you up under the arms and taking you out of the closet to sit on his hip. He removed the headphones Peter had loaned you, setting them back in the closet with your other things.

You babbled softly to yourself, suddenly entranced with the way Steve's blonde hair caught the light, your fingers drawn to the glistening gold. Steve and Bucky talked, though you didn't have enough capacity to truly listen.

"You don't think something is wrong, do you?"

"She seems happy."

"She doesn't usually get so small, Buck-"

"I know, Stevie," Bucky said soothingly. "We'll talk to her when she lets us." He kissed Steve on the cheek and you on the forehead before he veered toward the snack table, "I'll get her something to eat."

Steve fixed you with a puzzled look, "Is everything okay, sweetheart?"

He brushed hair away from your face and you leaned into his touch, "Papa." The word was slurred and barely audible, but Steve heard.

Fingers still buried in the hair behind his ear, you smushed your face into his neck, granting him a sloppy kiss, accented by a muffled, "Mwah." You giggled to yourself as Steve took his seat back on the couch, cradling you carefully in his lap.

You returned your attention to Steve's hair, fingers quickly undoing any attempt he'd made at styling it. He allowed it without complaint; it wasn't a secret that Steve liked having your attention, especially with an audience.

"Papa pretty," you declared, both hands shrouded in Steve's golden crown, now tousled and messy. Natasha laughed, drawing a derisive look from Wanda. Loki, who had been unsuccessful in convincing Thor to leave, looked miserly and disinterested, tucked into the corner of the sofa with his game, though he wasn't playing.

"Oh no, I don't think so," Steve suddenly tutted, capturing both of your hands in his, "My baby is the pretty one." And he buried his face in your neck, kissing and nibbling and tickling, your giggles devolving into gasping breaths by the time Bucky returned with food.

Steve relented, gathering you back into his arms to make room for Bucky, but before he could settle, you were straining against his grasp, trying to get to Bucky, "Dadadadada."

"Hold on," Steve chuckled, wrapping an arm around your waist to keep you in place. "Wait just a minute, sweet pea-"

"Dadada," you insisted, undeterred by Steve's interference. Reaching insistently for Bucky, you were no match for Steve's strength, eyes welling with frustrated tears.

Once Bucky was settled, he moved the plate safely out of the way, pulling you into his lap from Steve's grasp.

He cupped your chin, wiping a stray tear away, "No need for that, Daddy's right here, princess." You sniffled, urgency forgotten now that you had Bucky. He leaned in closer, cooing, "We know you're extra little, but try to tell us what you need with your big girl words, okay doll?"

To his surprise, you shook your head, "Uh-uh."

"You don't want to use big girl words?"

But you only babbled back at him, the sounds not quite forming all the way.

Steve caught Bucky's eye, but Bucky didn't push further, keeping a close eye on you as you grabbed a fistful of goldfish crackers from the plate he'd brought, sloppily spreading a trail of them from the end table to your seat on the sofa.

Steve captured your fist in his hand, trying to work the crackers loose before crumbs ended up scattered all over the rec room, "Here sweetness, we'll feed you instead, hm?"

But you let out a squeal of protest, fist instinctively jerking away and scattering crackers across the floor.

Before you could process, there was a sting to the top of your fist; Steve had given you a sharp tap, "Hey!"

As the realization set in, you stared at Steve with a wobbly lip, sucking in a breath, but before you could cry, Peter exclaimed, "That's not nice!"

"Pete-" Tony began, trying to shush Peter from the snack table, but Peter ducked his arm and charged over to the sofa, crossing his arms expectantly at Steve.

"Hitting is mean."

Now that the attention was on someone else, you buried your face in Bucky's shoulder with a soft whimper, watching Peter and Steve.

"Peter, honey," Steve tried to explain, "I didn't hit-"

"Yes you did, I saw," Peter insisted, though he glanced at your face, verifying your watery eyes and sniffles before he challenged Steve for the second time.

"I would-"

"I saw too," Loki chimed in. Wanda was quiet under Natasha's guidance, but she nodded her agreement.

Steve looked pained, "That wasn't to hurt-"

"Steve just needed to get her attention," Bucky tried to help.

But Peter wasn't having it, "Pretty girl is little, she doesn't know." Catching the note of ferocity in his own tone, Peter dialed it back, stealing a glance back at Tony to make sure he wasn't in trouble yet, "You're strong Uncle Steve, what if you did hurt her hand on accident?"

Steve took a deep, calming breath, "I would never hurt her on purpose. I'll be more careful, okay Pete?"

Peter didn't appear convinced, but he nodded. Steve urged him over closer, speaking low, "You're doing a good job looking out for her, okay buddy? I appreciate it."

Peter nodded again, stealing another glance at you to make sure you were really okay. But before he could return to Tony, who was still at the snack table chatting with Stephen, you held out your hand, offering the last goldfish cracker clutched there.

Politely accepting a cracker, Peter scuttled back to Tony, his courage depleted after standing up to a grown up.

Steve turned his guilty gaze back to you. You stared at him, tucked into the safety of Bucky's chest. He captured your now empty hand, pressing kisses into the back of it, "I'm sorry if I surprised you, sweetheart. Will you let me feed you, please?"

You nodded slowly, making no move to lift your head from Bucky; he was rubbing your back and it was making you sleepy.

"Buck, she won't sleep tonight if she naps now," Steve warned, taking the plate from Bucky's free hand and offering you a bite of pizza.

Bucky chuckled at your groan of protest as he removed his hand, propping you up in his lap so you could eat, "C'mon doll, eat something for us?"

You nibbled the pizza half-heartedly, but it was enough for them, both men raining praises on you for being so good. You only ate a little, but Steve and Bucky were more focused on keeping you calm and happy.

Suddenly remembering the party, you peeked at the others. Wanda was laying with her head in Nat's lap, playing her game solo. Peter was with Tony and Stephen at the snack table still, looking a bit shy. Thor was engrossed in the halftime report on the TV, bringing a large flagon to his lips for a deep drink, oblivious to the thunderstorm of atmosphere surrounding Loki beside him.

Loki looked miserable. His game was turned off, resting on the arm of the sofa. He had his knees pulled up, arms wrapped around them so his chin rested in the gap in between.

Tugging Bucky's sleeve, you pointed, "Dada?"

Bucky spoke gently in your ear, "What is it, princess?"

You struggled for the words, "He sad."

"He does look a little sad, huh?" he murmured, stealing a glance at Steve to see if he was listening, but he was chatting with Nat and Bruce. "You wanna help?"

You nodded and Bucky dutifully carried you over, patiently waiting for you to speak, "Loki?" It didn't sound like it usually did- the syllables were disjointed, but Loki was already paying attention.

"Yes," he replied plainly.

"I sit?"

"Sure."

Bucky settled you in between Loki and Thor, "Shout if you need me, okay baby?" He kissed your forehead before he returned to Steve, who urgently spoke in his ear, his gaze on you.

Loki didn't strike up a conversation. Words weren't your strong suit at the moment, so you just leaned against him, resting your head on his shoulder, "Okay?" Loki gave a short hum that sounded like approval, so you closed your eyes.

After a minute or two, Loki shifted, lowering his legs. You sat up as he readjusted, and he glanced at you, "You can stay- if you want."

Smiling, you leaned on him again as he grabbed his game. Lighting up further, you pointed, "I watch?"

He gave a tight nod, "Sure."

So you watched him play for a few minutes, disturbed only slightly when Thor finally stood to refill his mug and get more food. When Thor came back, plopping into his seat and shifting the sofa, you were pushed further into Loki, sliding down into his cushion with him.

You let out a soft, surprised squeal, fingers curling around Loki's arm for support. You saw the way Bucky's head snapped to you, instantly seeking you out to make sure you were okay. Steve, who had never stopped watching, narrowed his eyes.

"My apologies, little one, are you alright?" Thor patted your head.

Giggling, you nodded, allowing Bucky to relax as the game started again. As the ball was kicked again, everyone settled back into their seats to watch, although the noise quickly picked back up.

Before long, there was a collective inhale across the room and then all of the adults started shouting.

"Come on!"

"That was pass interference! Are the refs blind?"

Thor thumped his fist on the arm of the sofa, "Foul play!"

Peter caught your eye from his place next to Tony before he stood. Moments later, he was in front of you, the pair of blue headphones and your pacifier brought from the closet.

Rather than hand them to you, Peter carefully put the headphones on your head, though they weren't plugged in, and held the paci up to your lips.

"Fank you," you slurred around it, grateful to Peter but suddenly shy at the attention.

Peter grinned proudly before climbing back up next to Tony, who ruffled his hair.

Loki grabbed the end of the headphone cable, plugging it into his game so the sound would cover the noise.

Resting your head back on Loki's shoulder, you could hear the faint murmur of chatter and the occasional exclamation following a big play, but the sound wasn't so overwhelming.

And despite the dull uptick in the volume after each play, your eyelids grew heavy, your cheek smushed against Loki's shoulder.

You woke as your seat suddenly shifted again, the collective shout loud enough to pierce the protection of the headphones.

Jolting up to see Thor jump off the sofa, his fists raised in the air, "YES! YES!" The other adults cheered with him, but the sudden change in atmosphere was a shock. With a single sniffle, you burst into tears, the sound muffled underneath the din.

Before you could inhale for a wail, a pair of arms hoisted you up, Steve's scent soothing you before you'd even caught a glimpse of blonde hair.

"I've got you, sweetness," he cooed in your ear, whisking you back to his place next to Bucky.

You sniffled weakly, lip trembling, but no one other than Loki seemed to have noticed anything was wrong. By the time Bucky finished cheering and Thor sat back down, Steve had you cradled in his lap, Peter's headphones playing soft music in your ears.

Bucky smiled at you, brushing his thumb idly over your ankle. You blinked at him and Bucky instantly noticed the glitter of tears on your lashes, giving your ankle a soft squeeze and lifting a headphone to talk to you, "You okay, babydoll? You need to go home?"

Sloppily rubbing an eye, you shook your head, "Daddy havin' fun."

But Bucky shook his head, leaning in closer, "You tell me if you need to go, okay?" He cupped your chin, "My baby is more important, alright?"

Cheeks warming under the intensity of his gaze, you nodded. Looking satisfied, Bucky sat back, though he rested his palm on your ankle, his thumb resuming its path.

You curled your fingers into Steve's jersey, watching the people run around on the screen for lack of anything else to focus on. With Bucky's thumb tracing over your ankle and Steve's warm palm tracing your back, watching the game wasn't so bad.

As a man in blue ran down the field, another cheer went up, growing louder as his long strides carried him down into the very end of the field. Thor launched from his seat shouting again, oblivious to the sharp look he got from Steve. But you were ready for it this time, clapping along with everyone else.

The room quickly got quiet as all the players lined up by the goalposts, the tension obvious.

Bucky's fingers slowed on your ankle, squeezing softly as the play started. You struggled to keep track of the ball, but the room exploded in cheers again and Bucky hoisted you off Steve's lap as he jumped up to match Thor's enthusiasm.

Giggling, you clapped again, "Did we win, Daddy?"

Bucky grinned, looking as excited as you'd ever seen him, "We sure did, babydoll."

"Yay!"

Bucky looked so happy to see you excited about something he liked, blue eyes lit up with little crinkles around the corners of his eyes. Maybe you could like football too.

#daddy!stucky #daddy!stucky x little!reader #soft!dark!daddy!stucky #little!reader #agere #sfw agere #their girl #their girl series

1K notes · View notes

sweets4dolls · 3 months

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𝑔𝓊𝒾𝒹𝑒𝓁𝒾𝓃𝑒𝓈

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

fyi ¡! ❞

most of my fics contain submissive + crybaby coded readers and will be described as soft, cute, n small, so I will be less inclined to take asks about anything other than those types!

dni ¡! ❞

if you are anti dark content. self harm blogs. ed blogs. basic dni's.

writing rules ¡! ❞

◛⑅·˚ ༘ ♡ love to write. fem!reader. angst. yandere. power imbalance. toxic relationships. extreme dubious consent. age gaps (legal). ddlg undertones. blackmailing. kidnapping. manipulation. ੈ♡˳nsfw. breeding. dumbification. coercion. dacryphilia. somnophilia. free use. sex tapes. virginity kink. innocence kink. dollification.

◛˚₊ ⋆ ☠︎︎ will not write. male reader. gn reader. top/extreme dom reader. real people. pedophilia. excessive bodily fluids (piss, scat, vomit, etc). suicide. eating disorders. self-harm. pegging. ageplay & regression. pregnancy. cucking. anything I don't want to. anything I don't feel comfortable with. specific descriptions of the reader (i.e. skin color, body type, etc.), readers will always be cute, soft, n small as stated before.

fandoms ¡! ❞

hazbin hotel. helluva boss. spiderverse. avatar the way of water. dc. house of the dragon. game of thrones. asoiaf. the hunger games. pjo. harry potter. the marauders. fnaf. genshin impact. heathers. star wars. gen v. the boys. scream. yellowjackets. scott pilgrim vs the world + takes off. twisted wonderland. the sandman. blue-eyed samurai. mortal kombat. obey me!. twtptflob. deadly class. the lost boys. invincible. john wick. jjk.

fav characters ¡! ❞

lute. striker. crimson. hobie brown. neteyam. john constantine. jason todd. selina kyle. conner kent. bruce wayne. jacaerys velaryon. aegon ii. daeron targaryen. daenerys targaryen. cersei lannister. robb stark. viserys iii. maegor targaryen. finnick odair. haymitch abernathy. coriolanus snow. jason grace. luke castellan. piper mclean. tom riddle. regulus black. william afton. mike schmidt. alhaitham. neuvillette. jason dean. heather chandler. anakin skywalker. cate dunlap. sam riordan. homelander. soldier boy. micky altieri. billy loomis. lottie matthews. jackie taylor. todd ingram. envy adams. leona kingscholar. malleus draconia. floyd leech. morpheus. mizu. mileena. johnny cage. bi han. satan. mammon. belphegor. dion agriche. jeremy agriche. marcus lopez. paul. dwayne. john wick. nolan grayson. mark grayson. marquis de gramont. gojo saturo. geto suguru. sukuna ryomen.

#*. navi

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jangofctts · 2 years

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Feel the Heat (Batman/Bruce Wayne x fem!reader)

PART ONE PART TWO PART THREE PART FOUR

Rated: Mature, Explicit 18+

Word Count: 7k

Warnings: !!spoilers!!, some fluff!!, twisted the timeline a bit sorry ig, smut, explicit language, unprotected sex, vaginal fingering, squirting, jealousy, unashamed lesbian smooching, slight praise kink, mentions of violence/death, (lmk if I missed anything please!!)

a/n: aha thanks for your patience!!!

This is a stupid idea—going back to the Wayne Tower.

What are you even hoping to gain from this?

A stupid apology? An explanation?

You don’t know.

Bruce Wayne will always have his secrets—this you know. Middle school—sitting in the nurse’s office after class—Bruce holding his bleeding nose between his crimson stained hands while you did your history homework on the counter, littered with bloodied tissues and cotton-balls. He told you the other kid swung first—you promised him you wouldn’t tell Alfred. You remember the emergency room—junior prom night—broken collar bone and road rash all up the right side of his body. A piss poor attempt at driving his father’s motorcycle—you ditched your date to come pick Bruce’s ass up. When he tried to unwrap those stale muffin’s they give you as consolation, he burst into silent sobs when he couldn’t do it. His tears weren’t over the broken bone or icky muffin—rather the bike. The paint was scratched to hell. These sorts of things you’re privy too. The rest? You’re not so sure.

Not all of it is intentional. Isolation has a keen way of threading through one’s social life, binding together the art of conversation. He’ll never jump to share unless you jam the rusty pliers between his teeth and wrench his jaw apart. Unravel and sort through the mess of words to find a sensible answer—but that’s more of your mother’s way of things.

It still doesn’t stop you from throwing yourself at all those stupid walls he throws up. They’re flimsy when it comes to you. So, while the request to see you a day later from the whole funeral fiasco is not a surprise, your annoyance certainly is. It’s not really…aimed at Bruce. More of a cumulation of stress that has no outsource other than your morose friend. So when you arrive to the Wayne Tower, snappy and lightly rained on, you’re ready to tear into him.

Too bad you’re too much of a fuckin’ crybaby to follow through.

When those stupid nickel plated elevator doors slide open, you startle—completely throws you off your game. You don’t expect Mr. Bruce Wayne himself to be waiting to greet you.

Disheveled, shoulders drawn inward, hair an utter mess. God, he looks like shit. Why does he always look like shit? It’s the vampiric nature of this penthouse—you know it. Or his complete disregard for eating something other than a singular blueberry.

Bruce fiddles with his fraying sleeve. He attempts to smile but immediately drops the act the second you pointedly quirk a brow. He scowls. “Blue—”

True. You’re a coward when it comes to verbal confrontation, but pettiness? Oh, you can manage that just fine.

You mash the close door button. The metal squeaks on its hinges, shuttering as Bruce shoves his forearm between them. The doors snick back open. “Oops. Wrong floor.”

“Blue,” he protests, stepping to the side as you pout and shove past him. “Blue—wait.”

You wave him away and flee to the dining room. You fling your bag over one of the chairs and stalk towards the little bookshelf tucked away in the corner. Watery light streams through the gothic windows, highlighting the swirling dust motes. Bruce’s bare feet pad over the tile and then the plush rug, lingering behind you as if he were your shadow. You tense when his fingers touch your shoulder—he pulls back.

“I’m sorry I left you,” he murmurs, words mournful and reaching.

Your throat tightens, fingernails biting into the sot flesh of your palms. “You didn’t pick up the phone—I was so worried.”

No answer. You grit you teeth.

“I called almost every hospital, you know.”

Still nothing. Only a hollow exhale and a shuffle of loose fitting clothes.

You roll your bottom lip between your teeth. “Where did you go, Bruce?”

You were left there alone, swept into the crowd and mass panic—and you only wish he was there too. And at the end of it all, you don’t really care where he’s been or where he goes, just that he cares. You willingly outstretch your hand into the burning house, will watch it corrode and blacken all for his sake, but he chooses to sit and let the flames devour him.

This time, he reaches out.

“Carmine Falcone,” he says. You recognize the name from the funeral. A pause. He works his jaw, rubs at his arms, then sighs. “He knew my father."

Oh.

Gives the situation more a basis for understanding—still doesn’t excuse the abrupt depart. You watch him out of the corner of your eye. There’s more to this story—but now’s not the time to pry. Not yet.

Goosebumps rush down your spine as his fingertips meet the base of your neck. When you don’t turn around to bite, he sidles his body up to yours. “I’m sorry, Blue.”

“No,” you sneer, shrugging off his advances. Your feelings are still a bit tender. It doesn’t do much of anything—it’s just a strange dance of avoidance and of weaving limbs attempting to ensnare you. “I’m mad at you.”

Bruce’s hand slides down your forearm and slots around your wrist, pinning your arm across your waist. The other arm soon follows, trapped against your body with Bruce’s own limbs acting as the restraint. It’s a flimsy hold—one push and he’d fall away quicker than grains of sand through a sieve. Yet, as Bruce tucks you against his chest, most of your resistance ebbs. “Blue.”

“Don’t,” you whine, eyes squeezing shut. You’re angry for fuck’s sake—you’ll be damned if you simply give up your grievances just because Bruce is caging you close. You’re not some cheap-ass date nor feeble willed. You grit your teeth and dig your heels in. “Didn’t you hear me?”

Goosebumps rush up your arms as Bruce’s thumbs rub light circles on the delicate outcrop of your wrist bones. You feel his nose press into your hair, his exhale ruffling the strands atop your head. “Hm.”

His little hum is posed more as a question—quiet and lifting in the way questions do in the case of feigning innocence. Bastard. “I said I’m—”

Dry lips and scratchy stubble brush the dip of your shoulder. He mouths your name inaudibly into your skin like a patchwork of saccharine blessings and devotion—so sugary sweet that the roof of your mouth tastes like fuzzy static. Bruce imbeds devout kisses up your throat that curves out for him as offering. “You’re what?” His lips vibrate as the words tumble out, goading you into finishing your fallacy.

His plush lips latch onto the line of your jaw. You swallow and claw at the fleeting strands of your sensibilities and blink away the haze of desire. “I said I’m angry at you.”

You shiver, bitting back a gasp as his tongue trails a slick line up to your earlobe. One arm unlatches itself, fingers moving to sweep your hair off your shoulder. Though as they trace the slope of your shoulder, they hesitate over the the base of your neck. A dull flare of pain radiates out as Bruce curiously kneads the skin. “Did I leave this?”

A stab of panic lacerates your gut. Your first thought is to lie—tell him that yes, the mottled skin matching the teeth of Vengeance belongs to Bruce—but the guilt tastes bitter on the tongue. You clench your teeth. “I’ve uh…there’s someone else.”

The admittance does not deter him. Bruce’s hands find the hem of your shirt and skate up your bare stomach and sensitive sides. “Do I know them?”

“Why would you?” You sigh, smoothing your palm down his forearm. “You don’t have any friends.”

Bruce’s chest rises, intending to disprove the accusation. You beat him to it. “I don’t count.”

He snorts and runs his thumbs over your ribcage, setting the nerves alight. “Do you like him?”

You swear you feel Bruce’s lips upturn into a smirk, but just as you think it, it dissipates. Bruce’s lips touch your cheek as his hands rise higher, brushing the underside of your breasts. A noise of approval rumbles through his chest as you lean more of your weight against him. “Why?”

Bruce shrugs. You inhale sharply through your nose as he pushes one hand under the elastic band of your sports bra, deft fingers curling around the pliant flesh. “Competition,” he murmurs against the shell of your ear.

“Tall, dark and handsome,” you say, eyes fluttering shut. He rolls your nipple between his fingertips, other hand traversing back down the line of your sternum, over your stomach and to your navel. It’s pathetic how easily he’s lit a fire under your skin—hot and pressing, working up your body until it only craves him. “H-hard to beat.”

Bruce toys with the hem of your leggings, waits for your breathy consent, and then wiggles his hand into your pants. He dives past the thin elastic of your underwear and past your curls to touch your clit. Bruce smiles into your neck. “It is.”

Your head tips back against his chest, knees buckling at the raw pleasure that sparks from his fingertips to your body. He cinches closer, the sinew and muscle of his arm flexing to keep you from falling. A ragged gasp tears from your throat as his fingers brush teasingly over your clit, only to delve further between your wet cunt. He spreads the gathering wetness, gliding his fingers through your folds at an achingly slow pace—a prideful show of self satisfaction—how easily you unravel for him. Delicious heat simmers in the pit of your stomach, increasing tenfold as his middle finger experimentally circles your entrance. Your breath stutters as he dips only the first half inch of his fingertip inside of you—you clench around him and whine.

However, the angle is a little too awkward to fully seat his finger inside of you. Instead, he slips his finger up, dragging it back up to your clit. You jolt as he catches the underside of your clit, unprotected and searing. You claw at his forearm circling your front, nails harpooning into his skin. Bruce’s other hand unlatches from your breasts, slides out of your shirt and slots his hand over your jaw. He carefully twists your head, inviting you to look up at him. Dark hair spills over his forehead, irises blown wide and mouth parted. If anything, you’d say he’s the one who’s splitting apart at the seams.

You squint—there’s a smudge of something black under his eye—you hadn’t noticed it before. Like dust, or paint maybe. Before you can wiggle a hand between your bodies to inspect it further, Bruce nudges your nose with his.

“Kiss me,” it comes out in a strained gasp, because desperation is the venomous snake that’s bitten you both. Holding each other on the razorwire and the ivory snake fangs of your bodies—the burning a solid boundary of trouble and hysteria alike. “Blue—”

You neck strains at this angle, but you’ll bear the discomfort. His lips meld to yours, tasting like blueberries and mint tea. His lips are always forgiving, soft and feathery like he can’t quite fathom that you’ve decided to kiss him. You understand—loss decorates his chest like medals of war. Better the aloneness than the hurt—days that feel scripted and arduous. Barely fumbling his way through habits and requirements as if each of his bones were made from concrete. You’d carve him a slice of sunlight if you could, but you can’t. The only thing you can offer are your outstretched fingers and a promise not to leave again.

You cry into his open mouth, hot tongue sliding against yours as you part your lips. Bruce’s fingers don’t stop rocking against your clit, your slick arousal making a mess of your underwear. His fingers split, massaging the swollen nerves between the two digits, breaking away from your mouth to tuck his chin over your shoulder. Your head rolls back as your hand jumps up to bury your fingers into his hair. You’re nearing your end already. “Fuck—Bruce.”

He pants into the crux of your neck. “How many?”

Your hips roll into his hand, confusion blooming. “W-what?”

“How many times,” Bruce says lowly, “did your friend make you cum?”

You keen. What the fuck—what the fuck. You shouldn’t react in the way you do—swallowed by a wicked rush of arousal and heat—your cunt clenches hard and fuck, you’re right on the edge of orgasm. “I-I don’t—don’t know.”

Teeth pinch around your tender flesh, marking the space right above Bats’. Bruce paws at your breast. “How many? Once?”

Tears push at your eyes, squeezed shut as you scramble for an answer. You nearly burst into tears right then and there as his fingers cease their movements—you were so close, but now you’re plummeting down the mountain of ecstasy. You arch against him and yank at his hair—you don’t care that it’s bratty, nor the way the sound of his name filters past your teeth like a petulant princess. “Bruce.”

“Blue,” he mocks. Your fault for forgetting that Bruce is an only child—he gets what he wants.

You wet your lips and nuzzle your nose into his throat. “T-twice…”

Bruce’s lips draw into a grin. “I can do better.”

You hips stutter and jerk as his fingers leap into action. They roll over your clit, tight and fevered circles that shove you off that edge—your body seizes. You cum onto his fingers with a strangled cry, sparks of blurry white alighting behind your eyelids as you twist in his arms—jittery with nowhere to go. Bruce continues to swipe his fingers around your throbbing clit, your nerves burning hotter than wildfire, spreading from your core all the way up your stomach and down to your toes. You're shaking, and over the roar of your pulse, you hear Bruce murmur his praise. And maybe, if you were a better person, you’d tell him he’s competing with a shadow. You don’t even know his name or what he looks like—but it’s too late now.

Your stomach drops as Bruce’s hand loosely curls around your throat, his fingers over your clit refusing to give you a chance to recover. You don’t scrape the bottom, you’re swept into a wild whirlwind of scraped nerves—too blistering. The discomfort doesn’t last long. Another orgasm bursts through your core, quick and bright as Bruce’s fingers twitch around your throat. It singes your insides and fuck—your vision goes a bit fuzzy.

A broken groan falls from your lips as Bruce mercifully retracts his hand. His fingers are drenched, leaving behind shiny spots of wetness over your tummy as he flattens his palm over it. You’re still twitching, panting and swimming through the clouds of lust. Your throat bobs under Bruce’s hand, and as he slots his hips closer, you feel the bulge of his cock pressing against the base of your spine.

Bruce plants a kiss to your temple, the soft skin cool to your flushed skin. You sniff and clumsily wipe at your watering eyes. Bruce’s laugh is soft—reserved. “You ok?”

“Peachy,” you croak. You tilt your head and dot a quick kiss on the underside of Bruce’s jaw. His grim mouth upturns into the traces of a smile. He boxes you in against the window and slips his hands up your shirt.

“Can I take this off?” He murmurs into your ear. You nod, lifting your arms for him to slide it off. You bra comes next. A appreciate groan rumbles through his chest upon seeing your bare chest. You shudder when Bruce cups your breasts and thumbs over your nipples. His palm skates to your pants. “These too?”

You shuck them off faster than the blink of an eye. There’s a ruffle of fabric behind you and then Bruce is just as bare as you. His hands drift over the dips and swells of your body, his warm chest molding to your back.

He threads his fingers with yours, pinning your hand against the frigid glass. The city is shrouded in fog today, ghostly towers and the brief glimpses of the road down below swimming in and out of view. Raindrops splatter over the glass, the beads rolling down the flat surface until they conjoin into rivulets of water that mimic branches of lightning. A deep rumble of thunder reverberates through the window—typical weather for early November. A soft touch on the swell of your hip, draws you back into the present.

Bruce peppers kisses over your bare shoulders. “I want you.”

“What’s stopping you?” You goad, dipping a hand between your legs to touch his cock, nestled in the apex of your thighs. He hisses between his clenched teeth, fighting the instinct to mindlessly take you without regard. Your fingers roll over the head of his cock and then, inpatient, you guide him inside of you. “Shit—”

Your breath catches in your throat, no time to adjust as Bruce rocks his hips forward, pressing you tight between the cold widow and his body, splitting you open on his thick cock. You’re wet enough to take him with little resistance—soft and searing. Bruce whispers a curse, his lips brush up under your ear, the wet noises your body makes, obscene in the quiet space. Your breath fogs the window and when you catch his blissed out reflection, you clench around him. Bruce throbs, thick and perfect inside your tight, spasming cunt, hands tightening around your hip and hand.

You claw uselessly at the glass as you try to acclimate, sucking in tapered breathes while pleasure seeps through every pore. Bruce’s groan is rougher than gravel, a sound that has you tightening around him like a vice—threatening to cum again. It feels different like this, bent over in a way that his cock reaches a place you’d never be able to get to yourself. Bruce allows you a moment before he starts thrusting into you, sparking a sensation deep inside you with each movement so hard that it becomes sharp—not painful—but fuck, you’re gonna walk with a limp tomorrow. His hips roll into you, setting a rough pace that drags out a punched sigh every time he rocks up—

There’s no easing into it, nor does Bruce dare tease. It’s just there all of a sudden, pleasure and a touch of pain blasting through you all at once, throwing you to the flames.

“Fuck,” Bruce gasps. His grip tightens around your fingers, then falls away to trade in his hold for your breast. You squeak and hook onto his forearm. “Fuck—you’re perfect.”

Bruce drops his head into your neck, his grunts now muffled. Bruce’s fingertips move from your hip to between your legs, seeking out your abused clit. You flinch and press your forehead into the glass, welcoming the bitter chill as distraction until your nerves become used to his touch once more. “Y-you’re—ah—gonna kill me.”

He laves his tongue over your flushed skin, tasting the salt of your perspiration and the sweetness of your perfume. “Little Crybaby Blue—you’re tough.”

You’re not sure why the words pluck at such a visceral part of you. Shredding you apart for the third time without mercy. Your teeth pierce your bottom lip as you cum—everything surging up hot and molten. Bruce peels off your back, fucking you through it, and you can’t distinguish anything in the haze aside from his burning skin under you, in you, on you—the only anchor you have as the euphoria rockets through you. His name comes out garbled as you wail for him, the only warning either of you get before your knees buckle under you.

Your aching cunt weeps at the loss of Bruce’s cock as he catches you before you topple to the floor. Christ—your limbs are a mess—a feeling akin to being drunk. Your back meets the plush rug, the remnants of your orgasm still radiating out through your veins and arteries. Your legs are splayed open, your hip joints winging in protest as Bruce hooks his hands under you knees and pries your thighs further apart. You squeak as he suddenly yanks your legs over his knees, cock pulsing at the seam of your pussy as he folds over you, strong arms posting above you.

Your murmur his name and cup his stubbled cheeks. A lopsided smile graces your face as you push a strand of his hair behind his ear. Your gaze drifts back to that black smudge under his eye—you wipe the oily substance away with your thumb. Huh. “You wearing eyeliner now, Brucey?”

Bruce swallows and drops his chin. His shoulders lift with a shrug. “Something like that,” he says faintly. And then he kisses you. You gasp into his mouth and his tongue sinks deep into yours, devouring and greedy.

Bruce leans his weight onto one arm and breaks the kiss. He doesn’t go far, your lips just barely graze his. His hand finds his cock, flushed and twitching as he drags the blunt tip of himself through your folds. You both gasp as he finds your entrance, seating himself only partially inside of you. What the fuck. You arch and claw at his bicep, begging for all of it. Bruce doesn’t budge.

He quiets you with a kiss and rolls his hips. Your entire leg twitches and jerks over his hip, praying he’ll go deeper or something. “Bruce—please.”

You’re not expecting him to start moving the way he does—oh fuck. It’s a twisted, deep, burning pleasure that sparks through you, diffusing outwards from each calculated thrust. This pace is controlled—slow—but the brutal up and down thrusts that meet that little pleasurable spot inside you dead on, make up for the near-teasing tempo.

Bruce sits up, gripping your hips to counteract your ceaseless wiggling. You grab at him, clutching onto his arm and his bare chest, leaving behind red lines upon his pale flesh. You cry at the overwhelming sensation, straining and babbling for mercy or more. You can’t rightly tell. Your toes start to curl as the feeling overtakes your very soul. God—fuck, this is so fucking unfamiliar. Shoved down your throat and you can’t do anything about it but take it. You face the pleasure heard on, pure fire blurring the seams of your mind, hot and amorphous through your entire body. Fuck—you feel like crying. Are you crying? Probably.

You hiccup. Bruce murmurs gentle praise and yep—you’re crying. Blunt, white hot pressure builds up, tightening like a drawstring pulley against all the muscles below your waist. The strangled cry you make, like some wounded thing, should embarrass you as Bruce pulls out completely—ashamed by how desperately your cunt clamps down around nothing for what seems like an eternity. Bruce doesn’t seat his cock back into you until you stop writhing and clawing at his arms. Fuck him. Fuck this—

Bruce reaches out, cupping your cheek and thumbing the tears that dribble into your hairline. His thumb drops to your lip, toying with the plush skin until your tongue flicks out to taste his skin. Bruce grunts. “You’re so pretty.”

It’s right then that you realize you couldn’t be friends anymore. You’ve fallen into the arch of his fingerprint, the tender loops of his heartstrings. The tiny scars of childhood and the creases in his skin that you’d know numb and blind. You’re no different to him—he knows you—knows all the little ugly bits of yourself and still finds them beautiful. He’s handing you this secret insecurity of displaying desire. Something he is so afraid of—of it being stripped away. You don’t get to bask in the vulnerability—

Bruce shoves back inside of you and everything comes back full force as soon as he starts moving again. You clutch at his wrist and mouth his name, strong hips rolling into with devastating accurate and poise—you’re falling apart. Bruce pulls out again but this time, as your cunt spasms and arches with the loss, wet heat suddenly coats your inner thigh. His voice trips into a ragged moan, threaded in awe. “Shit—you liked that.”

Sparks zap and crackle through you long after his touch is gone. You don’t—fuck, what—

It clicks quite abruptly, what’s happened—a blush that encompasses your whole body burns through you. Christ—you didn’t even know you could.

His slides back inside you and you wail his name. “Do it again,” Bruce breathes, jerking his hips into you hard. You don’t know how he’s doing this to you—does this count as an orgasm? Fuck, you don’t know—you’re on the knife’s edge. All you know is Bruce, his cock spearing into your wet heat and the cloud of ecstasy. You don’t know where Bruce’s burst of confidence came from—it’s unlike him to just take. Almost like targeted vengeance on behalf of all the times he’s let you slip through his fingers, coaxing the molten pleasure out of you. You blink up at him, your vision blurry with tears as he leans down to whisper against your lips.

“Does he make you feel like this?” It’s spoken so delicately in contrast to the force and persistence of his movements, that it’s jarring. Is he really still thinking about that? It doesn’t fucking matter—

Even if you wanted to voice your opinion—you can’t fucking speak. It just tumbles into a realm of beyond worse as Bruce yanks himself out one last time. You can feel your floor muscles automatically flex against the sudden emptiness inside you. Your cheeks burn as he chokes out a broken moan, self satisfied and glued to your thighs that have become wet again. “No,” he answers for you, pushing your shaky legs off his hips. His keen eyes bask in the fruits of his labor, watching you struggle through the aftershocks. You shiver each time his hand rubs at your exposed thigh. “He doesn’t.”

You feel like lead, your limbs don’t work properly, as if you’ve severed the nerves that connects you to them. Fuck—your eyes, still blurry, drift to his tummy…then lower. He’s still hard—glistening in your arousal and flushed an angry red. You spare not a moment nor a thought as you reach out to touch him. He slides easily into palm—Bruce curses and drops his chin to his chest.You pump his cock the best you can at this angle, appreciative of the way he bucks his hips up to help you. Bruce crumples atop you a moment later, leaving just enough space for you to jerk him off, but close enough that you’re both melded together.

He mouths at your jawline, that dark and jealous streak seeping out of his body. His demeanor softens, drawing back into the familiarity of the Bruce you know. Your pussy clenches as Bruce whines into your ear—his hand pawing at any available skin that he finds. You can feel his cock throb—he’s close. You whisper his name and bury your other hand into the hair lining the nape of his neck and tug. His lips curl into a snarl.

“My B-Blue—”

Bruce’s teeth latch over the skin of your collarbone, one more thrust into your fist, and he’s spent. Bruce cums in your hand, over your hip and upper thigh. Fuck—that has no business being that fucking hot—covered in his spend while he shakes and grips you like you’re his only tether.

You let your hand fall lax. Bruce unlatches his teeth over your now mottled skin, and jumps to steal a kiss. You still can’t fucking talk—he’s robbed you of your ability to form words. He peppers kisses over your forehead, down your eyes and over the bridge of your nose. Memorizing each inch of skin with his plush mouth. Your heart aches for him—you hope your hand, threaded through his hair and tenderly massaging his scalp, conveys the message.

You like it here—crushed under his weight and the plush rug under you that’s probably given you rug burn on your ass. You like the way you can feel his heartbeat pound through the ivory makeup of his ribcage and the way his breathing evens out to a gentle puff against your neck.

However, the universe has a funny way of ruining a perfectly good moment, doesn’t it?

Footsteps echo down the hall—Bruce’s head rears, eyes widening as Alfred steps around the corner. There’s no time to give warning nor throw on a shirt or something. “Bruce? Everything—”

Alfred’s eyes drift down to your disorderly selves. Quicker than you can say Wayne, Alfred spins on his heel, throws a hand over his eyes and books it back the way he’s come. “Chrissake,” you hear him announce, carried by the tall ceilings and the echoey nature of the Wayne Tower.

You start giggling—what else is there to do? You’re soaring on endorphins—so much so that everything is bathed in humor.

Bruce blushes. A deep red that stains the hollows of his cheeks, his throat and the tips of his ears. You snicker and sweetly touch his scarlet skin. “Oops.”

Bruce groans and buries his face into your neck, holding you tight to escape the embarrassment. You cradle his head, carding through his hair and running your fingers over each inch of skin you can reach. This feels normal—right.

You wish you knew if he feels the same. But tragedy looms over Bruce like a cloud. You don’t know how to stand between this darkness of his life and the curled, shaking fist around the heart of his past. How to tell him that he has always been loved. But every time he opens up the book of his life, leafing though the thin, opaque paper, it is always the same story about aching. The same rabid hymnal of flight, of fingers breaking and twisted lungs. He’s strangled the light of better things between his fist like the ocean floor, the vacuum of space. You think it’s probably cathartic to him—to suffer the same pain everyday. Bruce could be be loved like an explosion and still be left cold. Whatever is broken inside of him only wants to devour. The love just slips right off from where he can’t feel it, a tiny swirl of mint toothpaste in the sink of his childhood. The little white menthol fingerprints spelling out apologies, guilt—

It’s an uphill battle to love him—but what fault is there in trying?

“I’ll drive you back.”

“What?” You ask, called back to the present.

Bruce kisses your shoulder. “Tonight, when you leave—I’ll drive you back home.”

“Tonight?” You echo, eyes drifting to the window. “It is eleven in the morning.”

Bruce shifts and turns his head to smatter kisses up your cheek. His quiet mhm vibrates over your skin.

“Is this your way of asking me to hang out with you?”

He nods and finds your lips. It’s a languid kiss—sweet and long.

“Fine.”

-=-=-=-=-

Selina knows this depraved club like the back of her hand. The vile happenings and the shameful acts that the upstanding arms of justice in Gotham should avoid at all cost. Yet here they are—greedy hands and lecherous eyes that can’t help themselves. Less of them have been down here as of late—happens when a serial killer is targeted men like them—but again, these stupid fools can’t quit.

And neither can Vengeance.

Selina only agreed to it for Annika—to wear this dumb earpiece and recording lenses so Vengeance could creep on all the unlucky souls here. The DA’s office, cops, social workers—all of it incriminating evidence that could land their asses in jail for life. Selina isn’t sure what exactly Vengeance is looking for. Loose ends maybe—a trail that leads back to this supposed rat that’s got everyone in a twist.

Vengeance is muttering in the earpiece, reading off names and loosely directing Selina to a mark worth sinking her claws into. It all falls to shit the moment Selina’s eyes drift to the bar, illuminated by a rainbow of LED and neon lights. She’s a pretty little thing, hugging the wall as her fingers fidget around the rim of a half empty tumbler. The black, sequined cocktail dress, hugs her frame like a glove, and every other moment or so, she tugs the hem of her dress back down her thighs. There’s plenty of hospitality workers, and though Selina works topside now, she knows or knows of the girls down here. While Vengeance’s sharp inhale that crackles through the earpiece solidifies Selina’s assumptions, the girl on her own, sticks out worse than a crayon in a box of colored pencils.

Selina sidesteps a drunken patron, eyes locked on the girl. “You know her, hun?”

“Talk to her,” Batboy orders sharply. Raw desperation laces his tone. Oh, he really must like her.

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” Selina sighs. “She’s a looker, huh, Batboy?”

No answer is given. Selina, quickly traverses the space, the bass of the heavy music vibrating through the air. The girl’s eyes flick to Selina, a quick look over to analyze he potential threat she may pose. They double back when Selina flashes her a smile—the girl squirms in her seat, touching one foot to the floor to bolt if she needs. Selina tiptoes he finger over the mahogany bar top, forcing back her snicker as panic wells in the girl’s flighty eyes. When she tries to leave, Selina slides a hand over her forearm. Selina leans in close, lips brushing her ear. She freezes. “Vengeance says hello.”

Blue shifts her weight in her seat. Her eyes, painted in neat eyeliner and glittery eyeshadow, widen. The ends of her mouth quirk into a faint smile. Innocent. Kind. You don’t find much of that in Gotham anymore. Then again, the girl shouldn’t be so trusting of Selina simply because she uttered a name she was familiar with. She settles back in her seat and offers her hand.

Selina eyes the outstretched limb and slips her hand into hers. They’re a little dry compared to the softness of Selina’s skin. They’re warm, though. “Blue.”

“Selina,” she smiles, allowing her hold to linger a little too long to be considered friendly. “Whatcha’ drinking, hun?”

“Selina,” Vengeance warns in her ear. “Careful with her.”

Selina heads him no mind. After all, he’s the one who directed Selina over here.

“Oh, uh—” Blue flounders and tucks a hair behind her ear. It’s a deliberate move—a wire is taped behind her ear—damn kid works for GCPD. Not that the signal will ever reach down here. Falcone and the Penguin have this place safeguarded and jammed. She lets the strands of her hair fall back into place. “Fizzy water and lemonade.”

Selina’s shoulders bounce with a laugh. “Never heard of that before.” Blue ducks her head and shyly offers her glass. “I used to get it as a kid—wasn’t allowed to drink soda.”

Selina takes up her offer and wraps her lips around the straw. Mauve lipstick stains remain on the white plastic. It’s alright—the lemonade is too sweet for Selina’s liking. She places the glass back into Blue’s hand. “Sounds like a boring childhood.”

Blue’s nose scrunches and waves her hand in dismissal.

“Ask her why she’s here.”

Selina inwardly sighs.

“So—what’s a girl like you doin’ in a place like this?” Selina purrs, crossing her legs and leaning closer. She props her chin up with her hand, limiting the chances of someone overhearing their little chat. Maybe, if fortune favors, Blue knows something about Annika.

Blue sips her drink. Her tongue rolls out to collect the excess moisture. “Same as you—and Bats. Looking for familiar faces.”

“It’s not safe here,” Bats harps, “She needs to leave—tell her.”

Selina lays a hand on Blue’s knee. Blue’s eyes drop, brows lifting in mild surprise. She doesn’t pull away. Selina smirks and rubs her thumb over the soft flesh, cooing softly as Blue clears her throat. Oh, she’s a treat to tease. “Hey—why don’t we help each other out? I think I know what you need.”

“Selina.”

Blue twists a strand of hair around her fingers, curiosity piqued. “Yeah? Like what?”

Selina lightly traces her fingernails further up Blue’s leg, the head pounding music and the nodes of her sweet perfume a perfect mix of risk and stupidity. Though just as Selina parts her lips to dangle a tidbit of information for Blue, an unwanted third party blunders through. Blue and Selina jerk apart, startled, hackles raised—

“How much do you—hic—ladies want,” a man, dressed in a disheveled three piece suit, slurs, “for a little—y’know...two on one.”

Selina scowls at the idiot in question who gestures to himself, shit-eating grin plastered across his aging, perspiring face. Blue blinks rapidly, the muscles in her jaw jumping. She recognizes this man—

“Jackson Pollard—DA’s office,” Vengeance supplies. “Get Blue out of there before he notices it’s his boss’ daughter.”

Shit.

Selina grabs Blue’s hand, and slips out of her stool. Blue follows. “Sorry, hun. We gotta run—girl stuff, y’know?”

The man’s lips, covered in a thick, graying mustache, purse. He squints and jabs a meaty finger at Blue. “Wait…don’t I—”

Selina grimaces and wrenches Blue out of the corner and into the fray of dancing girls and suited men. Blue grips Selina’s hand like a lifeline as thy navigate through the club. Vengeance nags in her ear—it’s drowned by the music and the thumping of her heart.

Selina herds Blue into the little side hallway, leading to the dressing rooms. She pins blue against the wall—her eyes shine in the dim lighting, her lips parted in protest. “Listen, baby—you a detective?”

“Crime scene tech,” she specifies. Selina feels her voice vibrate under her hand that presses on her sternum. “Why?”

Selina chews her cheek. “My friend—Annika…she’s missing.”

Blue’s brows dip into a worried furrow. “I-I’m sorry—she’s the Russian girl, right?”

“Yeah, exactly,” Selina nods, hope flickering in her chest. “You gotta help me out—you have access to police records, you can look for her. See if she pops up anywhere.”

“Don’t ask her that—she already risks her job for me.”

Selina’s hope sputters out like a candle as Blue frowns. She looks away, eyes finding the floor to stare morosely at. “I don’t think—”

“Please,” Selina grovels. “I can get you a list of regular patrons—Falcone keeps it as blackmail.”

Her face lights up. Blue contemplates for a moment. She outstretches her hand. “I can’t promise I’ll find anything.”

Selina takes her hand to shake on it. “Deal—wait here. I’ll be back in ten.”

“No—don’t leave her,” Vengeance protests in the earpiece. “Selina—“

Selina smirks. She lifts her hand to cup Blue’s face and runs her thumb along her cheekbone, shimmering with highlighter. “I’ll kiss her goodbye for you, Vengeance.”

-=-=-=-=-

The second you stepped into the underbelly of the Iceberg Lounge, you go radio silent. The wire and the camera tap out instantaneously, becoming a static blur. You suspect that who ever manages this place installed a jammer—weaselly bastards.

You have no choice to navigate blind. Your word is not reliable on its own in the court of law, but you’ll have to make do. You make a game of it—memorizing all the faces, the girls, who’s downing Drops like M&M’s. You recognize some of them. Lawyers that work under your dad—you turn your head to hide you face each time one of them passes by the corner you’ve chosen to occupy. This was a stupid idea.

Yeah, you fit the bill for this kind of undercover work, and the ID you use looks similar to you, but damnit. Gordon should have known you have too many ties in Gotham now. The police, the DA’s office, your mother’s senatorial shit. You just hope the gaudy makeup and your skimpy dress is enough to pass under the radar.

It doesn’t.

But not by who you’d suspect.

Batboy’s colleague. Selina is what she calls herself—if it’s even her actual name. Regardless, it’s your saving grace—plucks you from the jaws of danger and offers you exactly what you’ve come for. A list of names.

Nothing comes without a price—you figure you could poke around for her friend but the chances of finding her are…slim. Everyone knows that you have about 24 hours or less to find the victim alive—it’s been four days. Whatever. It’s worth checking.

The kiss is unexpected—not unpleasant in the slightest, though—a little too short if you were to complain. Her lips are soft and yours taste like lemonade. A thrilling blend of voracious passion and firecrackers that explode in your chest. You wonder what Bat’s will say to you later—it’s kinda funny.

Selina pinches your cheek and promises she’ll be back in ten minutes. So you wait, huddled in that dark hallway and twiddling your thumbs as working girls pass in and out. None of them pay you any mind. Ten minutes pass—then twenty.

You gnaw at your thumbnail—dread making a home inside your head. Selina isn’t coming back.

Left with no other option than to escape or keep digging—you bolt from the hallway and towards the gold-plated doors that lead to freedom. Your heartbeat drums in your chest as you reach security. They glare down at you with indifferent eyes, and just as they crack the door open for you—a hand clamps down over your arm. At first you think it’s Selina—

Wouldn’t that be fuckin’ nice?

Your blood runs ice-cold—panic lacerates through your veins and kicks your pulse into overdrive. You don’t have to know his face to realize who this man is. Dark sunglasses, silver teeth and a sharp suit. His sly grin curls up his withered face as yours crumbles into despair.

Carmine Falcone.

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