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druigswhores

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druigswhores · 3 months

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as a girl who is literally just a girl i am always yearning. always longing always missing always wearing my heart on my sleeve. always feeling like my heart is on the verge of exploding. the sight of the sun makes me cry. anyway

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druigswhores · 4 months

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"came back wrong" this "lived wrong" that, what about dying wrong. my death will forever cling to you, leaving behind a slimy trail and a metallic taste in your mouth. my soul will forever drag you down like the heavy corpse of a long-dead god, who somehow still grants wishes. you can't tell which one of us is the one not letting go. you know not even your own death will end this.

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druigswhores · 2 years

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I’m literally right here

need a gf badly

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druigswhores · 2 years

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No one asked but Charithra Chandran aka Edwina Sharma from Bridgerton is probably how I’d picture Theia to be, I don’t describe Theia’s features as much because I want her to be up to your interpretation but this is how I picture her <33

Here is the gold rush series !!

#druig #druig x reader #druig series #marvel #marvel series #barry keoghan #ETERNALS #marvel ETERNALS #mcu #marvel studios #druig fluff

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druigswhores · 2 years

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Twi | ins

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druigswhores · 2 years

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words cannot express how beloved jason todd’s white streak is to me.

so instead have this thread:

bonus:

frosty tips with a side of whatever mystery substance(s) are on that plate

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druigswhores · 2 years

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DC MASTERLIST

CHARACTER ONE SHOTS

jason todd

new person, same old mistakes

in which jason todd continues to struggle to tame the demons in his mind. angst, mentions of blood and injuries, kinda depressing

midnight love

in which you find yourself in the company of jason todd at midnight in the manor. fluff, jason loving jane austen, pining, fem!reader

bruce wayne

coming soon

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druigswhores · 2 years

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new person, same old mistakes

summary: in which jason todd continues to struggle to tame the demons in his mind.

warnings: angst, mentions of blood and injuries, this is just really sad and angsty for some reason

word count: 560

a/n: i’ve been reading a lot of dc comics lately and I absolutely love the batfam especially dick and jason, currently reading batman urban legends issue #3 and it gave me this idea, lmk if you want me to write more for the batfam characters, I’m trying to figure out how to write these characters, creds to the artist for their work! It’s so brilliant!

masterlist

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The soft purrs of the engine ceased as he begrudgingly climbed off his motorcycle. Glancing at the newly made scratches on his most prized possession, he winced as he felt the beginnings of a couple bruises forming on his not so delicate skin.

It was a hard night for him, but when has he ever been granted an easy night? Living as the ghost of what used to be Jason Todd, previously known to be ‘The Boy Wonder’, the only one to be killed at the hands of the Joker.

Now known as the Red Hood.

The more he had tried to become a good person, to protect and save the civilians of Gotham, the more he had failed. Would it be possible for Jason to ever be a hero? He wondered. Would he constantly be haunted by his past?

He had been up for 42 hours attempting to deal with the new Cheerdrops issue haunting the city of Gotham due to the presumed to be dead Jonathan Crane, and Jason had no intentions to take a break until Cheerdrops were off the streets.

His mind flickered back to the young child he had met today, who almost had the same fate as Jason did if it wasn’t for Batman intervening.

He knew he could never be a hero like Batman, but he didn’t want to be. He was willing to do what Bruce failed to do.

Kill for those he cares about.

The darkened streets of Gotham began to look less intimidating as the sunlight blanketed over the city. Jason ignored the wounds he bore, the sounds of him dragging his feet echoed the empty halls as he trudged to his room, avoiding the concerned gazes from his family, briefly noticing Alfred stopping Dick from following his brother.

He carelessly tossed his helmet on his bed and made his way to his bathroom. His clothes were torn and bloodied, albeit not all of the blood was his. He couldn’t help but groan as he peeled his clothes off, eyes flickering to the mirror in front of him, allowing him to his wounds clearer, his eyes trailing along with the faded scars that made its way down his torso and along his chest, Jason cleared his throat, moving to take a shower instead of getting lost in his thoughts.

He stood frozen as the ice water pelts hit his skin, the water below him a murky red, watching and waiting for the water to run clear. He didn’t know how long he stood in the shower, what felt like seconds could’ve been hours.

Jason felt as though he was experiencing an outer body experience, wanting to tear himself away from the harsh waters but unable to do so, it was as if he was stuck in his own mind, trapped in a prison forged by the actions of his previous crimes.

The world continued as he stood frozen, flashes of his former self appearing in his mind as he felt the cool droplets run down his neck causing him to shudder.

As he stood in the shower, washing away the sins he committed that day, Jason Todd continued to be haunted by his past, by a young boy donned in yellow, green, red and black, and a striking resemblance to the man Jason saw as he stared into the mirror.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

all works: @yelenabelovasgf @amourtentiaa @husherstan @peggycarter-steverogers @drpepperobsessed @whosedevil @missusstark @hehehehannahthings @rafecameronswhore @secretsthathauntus @idontwannabetherightwayround @crymanny @beliza-styles28 @k3njirou @a-court-of-roscoe-and-baby @jeminiepabo @listenthemoose @cluelessgurl @bilinskiwhore57

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druigswhores · 2 years

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MIDNIGHT LOVE

summary: in which you find yourself in the company of jason todd at midnight in the manor.

pairings: jason todd x female reader

warnings: none that I can think of, fluff, jason todd loves jane austen

word count: 1k

a/n: this was inspired by @stxrryskygrayson’s recent jason fic i loved it sm <3 creds to the artist for the fanart, I’m fr obsessed with it

masterlist

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The soft glow of the fireplace brightened up the room, it was silent except for the flickers of the flames and the occasional turn of a page, almost eerily silent if it was anywhere else except for Gotham.

The sounds of the busy streets could be heard from the Manor, the lights were off throughout the manor and the halls were empty as she tiptoed her way through the Wayne Manor. She had been there for a couple weeks as a favour from Tim who she struggled to look for that very moment. She hadn’t spoken to the rest of his siblings other than Dick, Damian preferred to analyse her from a distance and Jason rarely spoke to her unless he had to, which rarely happened since he’s hardly around.

“Damian, stop glaring at her like that.” Dick ruffled Damian’s hair, causing the younger boy to aim his glare at his brother instead, Alfred gave her a sympathetic look before continuing to move around the kitchen.

“Jay said he’d meet me in the cave twenty minutes ago, have you guys seen him?” Tim questioned as he walked into the room, causing everyone to shake their head in response.

It was late, she knew that but she also knew the Wayne family lived on an entirely different clock than the rest of the world and had hoped someone would be awake.

Even though many people come in and out of the Manor, she had never felt lonelier, everyone had their own jobs and vigilante missions they did at night while she stayed in the Manor, she felt like a ghost, wandering around the darkened halls to find company. She was grateful of course, anyone would love to be staying in a place like this, however she hadn’t known the price for luxury would be loneliness.

Making her way to the main room, she noticed the soft flickers of the flames in the fireplace, casting a soft glow in the room. The curtains remained open,

Allowing the twinkling lights of Gotham to peer into the room, from where she stood she could see a light beaming into the night sky, the recognisable bat signal that towered over the city.

She hadn’t noticed how long he had been sitting there until she heard the low rasp of his voice, unusually soft for someone who donned the name ‘red hood’ as a vigilante.

“you're just going to stand there?” He questions, eyes not leaving the book he read as he sat facing towards the fireplace.

The flames casted a warm glow on Jason’s face, causing his demeanor to look less intimidating than usual, he sat with one leg resting on the thigh of the other, his usual leather jacket had been discarded for a simple black T-shirt.

She didn’t realise she was staring until he mentioned it.

“So you’re just going to stand there and stare at me, huh?” He continued sarcastically before finally looking up at her.

“Oh- I didn’t mean to disturb you.” She finally spoke out, he shook his head in response, motioning at the chair across from him, asking her to sit.

“I haven’t seen you in a while, thought you left.” He spoke as she sat down, glancing at the books scattered on the table in between them and picking one up.

“I didn’t want to bother anyone or get in the way of everything.” She hesitated, eyes glancing over at the book in her grasp, taking in the worn cover and the annotations on the first couple pages, the unmistakable ‘property of jason todd’ scribbled at the front.

“Can I?…” she asked, signalling at the point in her hands, Jason nodded in response before going back to his own book, every couple moments or so she’d notice him jot something down on the edges of the page before continuing to read.

In her grasp was a heavily worn copy of pride and prejudice, she knew by the condition of it that he had read the book more than once. Each time he had read it he’d add something new to his annotations.

For a while the two sat in comfortable silence, as if they’ve done it a hundred times before, she didn’t feel the need to say something to fill the silence, allowing the words on the pages in front of her to take over her mind instead.

Occasionally she’d glance up and watch as he read, watching as his gaze moved across the page, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration, she couldn’t help but admire him as he did so, knowing he was too busy in his own bubble to be disturbed by her actions.

Her eyes traced over the scars littered over his face and arms, scars that were clearly once knife wounds. Every couple moments he’d stretch his arms as if leaning his back on the chair caused him discomfort.

She was in awe of him, watching as his fingers gently turned the pages, the gentleness of his actions a stark contrast to his vigilante actions.

Her eyes would flicker back to her own book when she’d feel his attention waiver, not wanting to be caught by him but once his sharp eyes met hers she knew she was caught, quickly glancing back at the book in her lap to pretend she hadn’t been caught.

He cleared his throat, hesitating before speaking.

“You can keep the book, if you want.” He offered, glancing at the book in her hand, she followed his gaze before looking back at him, attempting to cover her surprise.

“I’ll give it back once I’m done.” She offered and he hummed in response, she stretched her arm out in front of her, reaching for a pen from the pack that were scattered on the coffee table before moving to add her own annotations to the book, brows furrowed in concentration.

She missed his soft gaze on her, watching as she flickered through the previous pages to add more annotations, missing the beginning of a smile to form on his face as he continued to watch her before shaking his head and focusing his gaze to his book.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

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druigswhores · 2 years

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HARRY POTTER UNIVERSE MASTERLIST

sirius black

proud of you

in which sirius never had someone tell him they're proud of him. angst, panic attacks

#harry potter #sirius black #marauders #hogwarts #fred weasley #george weasley #ron Weasley #remus lupin #james potter #harry potter fanfiction #hermione granger #charlie weasley #james potter x reader #sirius black angst #cedric diggory

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druigswhores · 2 years

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MARVEL MASTERLIST

CHARACTER MASTERLISTS

druig masterlist

natasha romanoff masterlist

pietro maximoff masterlist

peter parker masterlist

CHARACTER ONE SHOTS

thor odinson

“it's called a WHAT?"

when you go ikea shopping with thor for furniture for your bedroom. fluff!

loki laufeyson

undying attention

where loki gives his undying attention to nobody but you. fluff!

tony stark

behind the armour

where you helps a closed off Tony with a panic attack which leads to her telling him what he really needed to hear. (post civil-war & pre infinity war) angst + slight fluff

#marvel #mcu #avengers #marvel fanfiction #marvel actors #avengers infinity war #druig #druig x reader #marvel eternals #barry keoghan #tony stark #loki fanfic #thor #peter parker #natasha romanoff #avenger!reader #marvel fluff

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druigswhores · 2 years

Note

this fic got me kicking my feet in the air while giggling

[comes to you like an old timey journalist]

Ay kid, I got something for ya..

Bruce Wayne intimacy, caring for him, washing the dirt and grime out his hair, helping alfred stitch his wounds and make him eat and sleep, reassuring Dick when things look bad, being there for him when he feels he has nobody…. ya know…. the good stuff

it's just a feeling

pairing: bruce wayne x reader (gn pronouns)

rating: t

word count: 4,296

one-sentence synopsis: bruce returns from a night out as the batman in gotham, and you remind him what it is to just be bruce, and to let himself be taken care of, for just a little while.

author's note: oh god the intimacy........... a hot scoop if ever i had one buckaroo

read on ao3!

You’re usually lucky if Bruce is home before dawn.

Tonight, you’re not so lucky.

The sun’s already started to spread back up into the sky, beams of dim grey light fighting through Gotham’s near-constant cloud cover. The curtains are drawn throughout Wayne Manor, however, keeping the palatial spread of Bruce’s home in darkness until he’s actually ready to start his day later.

Alfred joins you in the window, watching the trees outside the estate, waiting for the telltale flash of neon and the rumbling engine that promise the Batmobile’s back— that Bruce is back, that another night as Batman is over, that he’s survived long enough to come home to you once more.

When you see it, you visibly relax. The house is so silent that the distant purr of the engine seems like the loudest crash. When it skims underneath the property, vanishing into the bowels of Wayne Manor, Alfred sighs beside you. You glance over at him.

“Another night,” Alfred says. He doesn’t elaborate before he turns to make his way to the elevator that’ll take him down to the Batcave, and you follow after him. You don’t speak, either; there’s really nothing that needs to be said, right now. The two of you have long since fallen into a routine with Bruce. As the two (adult) people who live with him, who take care of him, who love him most, it’s difficult for you to see Bruce like this.

You hear pounding footsteps before the elevator doors close, and then a tiny hand is slamming in, stopping them from shutting. Dick stares up at you from the other side as the doors snap back open. He still looks half-asleep, pillow lines on his face, pajamas as rumpled as his hair, but he’s alert enough to glare at the both of you.

“Is he home?” Dick asks. His jaw cracks around a yawn in the next second, and you hold your hand out to him.

“He is,” you tell him as Dick comes to you, slipping his hand into yours. He leans into your leg sleepily, letting his eyes drift shut as he yawns again. “You, however, should be asleep.”

“I want to make sure he’s okay,” Dick informs you. It’s just an explanation, not an argument.

Alfred crouches, and Dick steps into the circle of his arms, letting him lift him up onto his hip. Dick refuses to release your hand, clinging tightly as Alfred keeps him close.

The elevator dings into place in the dark subterranean Batcave, the doors clattering open. You can see the Batmobile at the far end of the space, the lights still glowing as the machine cools down enough to be turned off again, and the shadowy shape of Bruce moving through the aisles of worktables and equipment. His cowl, cape, and armor are all still in place, though you can see a fray in the material near his eye, a tear along the left edge of the cape, a chunk ripped out of the armor covering one thigh.

You’ll need to make repairs today and patch together other armor for him to take when he goes out tomorrow night; the last thing you’d ever do is let him go out with less than perfect protection from you.

Bruce finally lifts his eyes, when he’s drawn close enough. You can see the bright glint of them as they hit you first.

In that moment, there’s no filter, no screen, no divide; the wall that Bruce likes to hide behind most often isn’t there, and he’s just looking at you, connecting with you, raw and exhausted and worn. Your lips part slightly; you’re not sure if you need a breath, or if you’re going to say something.

“Bruce!” Dick exclaims, wriggling to get out of Alfred’s arms. The both of you release him, and he sprints to Bruce, colliding with his legs. You don’t miss the way Bruce staggers backwards, catching himself against the worktable behind them.

He still wraps an arm around Dick in response. He bows to hold him for a moment before he lifts him.

“You should be asleep,” Bruce informs him. It sounds like he’s trying to be stern, but he’s landing at slightly concerned instead.

“I just wanted to say hi,” Dick says. He pulls at Bruce’s cowl, and so Bruce reaches up to tug it off, dropping it aside. He looks absolutely fucking exhausted, his face drawn, hair crushed flat, skin wan and split here and there. You can’t see the bags under his eyes, smudged as the space around his eyes is with impossible amounts of reflective black paint, but you know there’s going to be tired bruises there when his face is clean again

“Hi,” Bruce tells him. “When did you go to sleep?”

Dick immediately appears sheepish, and lies, “Eight o’clock.” Bruce looks up at you and Alfred for confirmation, and Dick hurries to correct himself, saying, “I meant ten!”

“You shouldn’t stay up so late,” Bruce tells him, moving to set him down again. “You need your rest. Go back to sleep, kid, okay?”

Listen to your own goddamn advice, you can’t help yourself from thinking. It’s different, you know that. And you can’t help being impossibly endeared by how deeply Bruce cares about Dick and his well-being, even if it’s offset by the obvious contrast in how little he cares about himself and his own well-being.

At least, you think, he has you. And Alfred, and Dick, you mentally amend, but mostly you, because Alfred keeps Bruce functional and the house running, and Dick keeps Bruce balanced and controlled and happy, but you keep Bruce alive. You care for him the same way he cares for Gotham: absolutely, without concern for yourself, determined to do this one job right and protect what matters most to you.

Dick is frowning, but Bruce says, “Alfred, would you?” anyway.

Alfred extends his hand, and Dick hesitates for a rebellious moment before he gives in. He must still be tired, and you wonder how long he waited up after you put him to sleep still waiting for Bruce. You’re sure he’s still lying about ten o’clock, but you’re not about to call him out on it, not right now. Later, you can try and convince him about the merits of a good night’s sleep, even when his father— or, father figure, or mentor, as they insist, but you know better— is setting a terrible example.

“I’ll return in a moment,” Alfred informs you both, but Bruce waves him off, already turning away to start unfastening the latches on his armor.

“No need, Alfred,” Bruce replies. “I’m all set tonight, you can go to bed. Thanks for waiting up.”

Alfred is obviously skeptical, hesitant, and he’s about to argue with him before the two of you make eye contact. You and Alfred have gotten excellent at nonverbal communication; it’s easy for you to talk about Bruce without Bruce ever hearing a word.

Now, Alfred lifts an eyebrow at you slightly. You incline your head. When Alfred’s eyes flick over to Bruce, then back to you, you shake your head slightly, a small furrow coming between your brows.

I can still come back, he’s saying.

No, you tell him, I’ll take care of him. I can do this.

“Get some rest, Alfred,” you tell him. Alfred nods, now, surrendering Bruce to your care. It doesn’t look like Bruce has been busted up in any major ways, no enormous lacerations or deep injuries that need immediate wound care from somebody trained under fire. When Bruce needs a different kind of care, it’s better if it’s only you there. He tries so hard to stay strong for Dick and Alfred, no matter how often you— all of you— insist he doesn’t have to.

You all love him, and he loves you all. The hard part is just convincing him that it’s as true in one direction as it is in the other. You have an unconditional love for him, as does Alfred, as does Dick— but Bruce is terrified that he’ll someday still find the one condition that’ll stop that love, the one thing that will leave him alone again.

He loved so deeply before, only to lose everything, to be broken completely. He’s always so terrified to love again— to lose again— but you know that he’s losing every second he’s not letting himself love.

When Alfred and Dick vanish behind the closed elevator doors, the machine carrying them up and away into the proper body of Wayne Manor, you return your attention more fully to Bruce.

With nobody here but the two of you, Bruce is starting to crumple. He grasps for the fixture on the cape, and you step up without hesitation, stretching to unclasp it yourself. You send the fabric slithering to the floor. It’s important; of course, it’s important. Everything Bruce makes for Batman is important.

Bruce, however, is more important, and takes precedence over his uniform. You unwind the wraps from his hands, freeing each finger in turn until his bruised hands are free. Each piece of his armor gets separated and set aside next, either placed on a worktable or dropped to the floor to join the cape. You’ll pick it up later, or Alfred will, or Bruce himself will; whoever gets to it first. Right now, it doesn’t matter. They’re just things, just clothes. They can be mended in time. Bruce needs mending immediately, needs care he can’t wait for.

When you’ve got him down to his tight black boxer briefs and his black undershirt— all soaked in sweat— you can take a better catalogue of his injuries.

Really, compared to other nights, it’s not that bad tonight. There’s a long cut looping near his hip that must’ve slipped through his armor; luckily, though it stretches for a fair length, it’s shallow. A slightly deeper cut is near his collarbone, and there’s a few fresh bruises, which you’ve grown horribly used to.

“C’mon,” you tell him, and take his hand to guide him. He grabs his notebook on the way, letting you take him upstairs into the proper house, through the dark, twisting hallways and up the stairs to his bedroom.

In the enormous bathroom attached to his bedroom, you sit Bruce down on the edge of the bathtub. You run the hot water, letting the rushing sound fill the room, steam thick with heat following after. In that roaring silence, Bruce scribbles in his notebook, his hand flying in his struggle to keep up with the pace of his own thoughts.

While he works and the bathtub fills, you start examining his wounds. His skin prickles everywhere your fingers drag. You make a soft noise when you see a little fresh blood around the injury near his collarbone, and his eyes flick up to meet yours.

“I’m going to stitch this one,” you tell him.

He nods, then says, “Thank you,” his voice rough. You nod, leaning in to kiss his cheek, tasting paint and sweat and dirt and God knows what the fuck else.

Bruce keeps up his rapid scribbling while you dig out the massive first aid kit you and Alfred keep under the sink for him in here. You clean the wound on his hip first, then neatly close it with butterfly stitches. He barely seems to notice. When you move up to his collarbone, he switches to writing with his other hand. He only reacts once, when you first dab this wound; his expression tightens a bit, the muscles in his jaw jumping.

You move more carefully, cleaning out the deeper cut as tenderly as possible. He doesn’t respond again, still writing, mumbling softly to himself as he works. It’s a rhythm the two of you have long since established. In the beginning, he used to apologize a lot. It took you telling him many, many times that you’re here for him, not some changed and different version of him, for him to actually believe you, letting it sink in that he can sometimes just be quiet and think. You know he needs to process his time out as Batman when he gets home; this is just another part of the routine.

You finish cleaning Bruce’s injuries and stitching him up before he’s finished writing. You let the water run a little bit, letting a bit of it out so he can finish up. It’s only once he’s done that you finally allow the bathtub to fill up the entire way. He seems surprised, nearly as if he’s forgotten where he was, when you reach out to lay a hand on his wrist.

“Can I take that?” you ask, and he nods. Slipping the notebook from his hand, keeping his pen inside to keep his place, you tug him into standing again.

He starts to strip off his own undershirt, so you kneel to hook your fingertips in the waistband of his underwear and tug them down. His clothes end up in the laundry basket; the notebook is safely removed to the nightstand in his bedroom; the first aid kit is replaced to its home beneath the sink.

Bruce takes your hand, lets you lower him down into the hot water. His face screws up slightly in response to the heat. You watch Bruce start to sink back into his own body, bit by bit, coming back to you.

The physical sensations are going a long way towards dragging him up out of the trance he usually ends up in when he comes home on nights like these. You roll your clothes up so you can sit on the bathtub’s edge without getting anything wet, your own legs submerged in the water up to your knees.

You stretch to reach for Bruce’s bath sponge. He tilts forward obediently, and you reach down to soak the sponge in water before you bring it up over his back and squeeze it out, letting the water rush down his skin. It drags dirt and grime with it, leaving trails of slightly cleaner skin behind.

You take up Bruce’s soap and start working it through the sponge until there’s a lather. His eyes drift closed when you bring the sponge to his back again, starting to scrub at his shoulder blades, suds washing away the filth that’s gathered on him over the course of the night. You work over every inch of his back, taking care to make sure you don’t miss anything. You go back over it again, to loosen his muscles, and he sighs, his head hanging forward, shoulders slumping.

You take Bruce’s wrist in your hand, stretching out one arm so you can scrub it clean. You do the same with the other, and Bruce tilts his head back to watch you, his bright eyes hazily half-focused on your face as you work.

Every now and then, unable to resist him, you lean in and press a kiss to some part of his face. The corner of his mouth, the space next to his eye, the skin between his brows, the side of his nose. He smiles slightly every time, tipping just a bit into each kiss like he’s chasing after them with half a mind, slowly, drowsily returning to his own body.

While you’re focused on his face, you bring a washcloth up to scrub the paint and sweat and filth away. You swipe under one eye, sponging the paint off of him in sweeps to reveal pale skin and the bruises you knew would be underneath his eyes. You scour his entire face until he’s pink and raw when you bring the filthy cloth away. The thing is stained, but you just chuck it towards the laundry. It’s more important that Bruce is clean than the washcloth is.

You take up the sponge again to bring down between his legs, dipping into the creases near his hips, his thighs. His head tilts back against the rim of the tub, and he shifts. You let your hand glide over his cock once, but there’s no intent. He’s clean, he’s warm, he’s safe, he’s here. That’s all you want— right now, anyways.

Gliding to his inner thigh, you make sure he’s clean everywhere. You scrub behind his knees, along the fine bones of his ankles, winding around and back up the other side. You make sure he’s clean everywhere, not a drop of the night left on him, before you abandon the sponge and take up Bruce’s shampoo instead.

Bruce tips his own head into the water to wet his filthy hair, sweat-soaked and crushed flat to his scalp as it is. He has such beautiful hair, not that he seems to realize it.

You scratch your nails down to his scalp, working out every tiny bit of grit, every speck of dirt, every oil-slick strand. He relaxes under your ministrations, his eyes drifting open and closed and open again, slipping up to find your face. He flickers back and forth as he watches you, a small smile at the edges of his lips.

When his hair is completely washed, you rinse it, then start again. He gets scrubbed twice before you carefully condition his hair, even as he huffs a laugh at you.

“How was it tonight?” you ask, when he starts to engage with you again.

“Mm.” He shifts, the water rippling slightly against the sides of the bath. “It wasn’t bad. Nothing terrible. Just another night in Gotham.”

For Bruce, ‘just another night in Gotham’ can mean anything from stopping a couple of muggings to witnessing somebody’s death, so you’re not about to let him just blow off whatever happened tonight. However, you also know he processes in his own time, so you rinse his hair again before kissing him on the temple.

“Up,” you say. “Get in the shower, let me clean the bathtub.”

“I’m s—”

“Go,” you tell him, and he goes. A trail of dripping water is left behind in tiny puddles in his wake. Really, the bathtub isn’t so hard to clean; you rinse it out twice and it’s mostly fine. You find Bruce in the shower after, his forehead pressed to the tile, hot water cascading over the crown of his head to sluice down his body.

“Come on,” you say. You tangle your fingers with his, and he comes with you to stand on the rug in front of the sink. You stretch to towel his hair dry, combing it with your fingers before you twist to find his actual comb on the counter. He stands still as you comb his hair back for him, then pat him dry all over, kneeling to rub the towel down the backs of his thighs.

Small goosebumps are lifting on his skin when you finish, so you reach for his bathrobe to wrap him in it, soft, dark fabric sliding over his skin. He follows you from the bathroom to his bedroom.

When you’re sitting him down on the edge of the bed, sweeping his hair back from his face, there’s a soft knock at the door. You leave him there with a kiss on the forehead before you go to answer the gentle sound.

On the other side of the door, Alfred waits with a tray. He passes it off to you, asks, “How is he tonight?”

“He’s okay, I think,” you tell him. You glance over your shoulder, and Alfred does the same, the both of you watching as Bruce shuffles himself back against the pillows, still on top of the covers. “Just tired.”

“Aren’t we all?” Alfred asks, and you smile slightly. When you turn back to Alfred, he leans in to give you a kiss on the cheek. “You get some sleep, too. Don’t think your hours have gone unnoticed—”

“Goodnight, Alfred,” you say, giving his hand a squeeze before you balance the tray again. “You get some sleep.”

“Rest assured, I will,” Alfred replies. Raising his voice slightly, he says over your shoulder, “Goodnight, Master Wayne.”

“Goodnight, Alfred,” Bruce says. He looks up, asks, “Is Dick asleep?”

“Soundly,” Alfred replies.

Bruce is smiling when he says, “Thanks, Alfred.”

“Get some rest,” is all Alfred says. He eyes you, says, “The both of you. And eat that,” he adds, pointing at the tray he’s given you. “All of it.”

“Yes, Dad,” Bruce says from the bed. It’s a joke, but it’s not a joke, between them. Every time he makes the joke, the both of them get this smile that makes your chest feel tight, and you’re not even involved. It’s nice, to see Bruce, who sometimes feels like the most well-known orphan in the world, not be completely without a parent.

Alfred bids you both goodnight again before leaving to retire to his own room. You nudge the door shut gently, quietly, before taking the tray he’s brought to Bruce in bed, slipping the cover up and off.

It’s not much— it’s hot oatmeal, and warm water, and cornbread with butter melting in. It’s not food that Bruce makes himself when he’s being specific with what he eats; it’s what Alfred makes him to comfort him.

Bruce accepts the food without comment, leaning back against the pillows to pick at pieces of it. You tear the cornbread and bring a piece to his lips.

He smiles. “You’re feeding me, now?”

“It’s more for me than you,” you tell him. Leaning in slightly and lowering your voice, as if sharing a secret with a co-conspirator, you tell him, “I have a little bit of a crush on you, you know.”

Bruce laughs again, a soft noise that accompanies a bit of pink flushing on his sharp cheeks. You lean in to kiss the corner of his mouth before you feed him the cornbread. His tongue chases the shine of butter on your fingertip, and you smile, too, watching the sleepily joyful edge that he has as he nears sleep.

You can’t help but feel partially responsible for him, right now. For his contentment, for his happiness, for the way he’s stretching lazily and yawning when you know that, before you, he used to come home and lock his bedroom door and collapse in bed until he woke up the next day, if he slept at all. It’s difficult to keep Bruce home— impossible, actually— but you can at least make home a good place while he’s here, can make sure that he’s comfortable and safe and happy while he’s here with you.

Softly, unable to stop yourself, you ask him, “Bruce. Are you happy?”

Bruce looks up from where he’s scraping the last of his oatmeal from the bowl, his brow furrowed. “What makes you ask that?”

Your chest hurts a little bit. “I just wanted to make sure.”

“Oh.” Bruce looks back down at his spoon, then sets it down, abandoning the empty dishware. You take it from him as he says, “I am.”

“Yeah?” you ask.

He reaches out, his long fingers encircling your wrist. You set the empty tray aside, joining him in bed again, bringing him painkillers from the bottle on the bedside table to take with the last of his water.

“Yeah,” he agrees.

He takes the painkillers you offer, then draws you in. You climb over him to get under the covers, bringing them up and around the both of you. Snapping off the light beside the bed, you throw the room into darkness, despite the fact that you know the sun must just be rising outside. For Bruce, this is the time to sleep, the only time. You’re going to make sure not a drop of sunlight comes in to ruin that before he’s ready.

Bruce twists to burrow into you in the darkness. You can’t see each other, but you can feel Bruce wrapping himself around you, burying his face in your throat. His chest is rising and falling steadily, but his face feels warm as he tucks it into your skin.

His lips move slightly, but you can’t hear what he says. Letting your hand drift up, you start carding your fingers through his damp hair, scratching lightly along his scalp.

You press a kiss to his hairline, then whisper, “What was that?”

Bruce takes a soft breath in. The inhale feels a little shaky, but you don’t have time to ask if he’s okay before he’s murmuring again, voice raised slightly from before, “Thank you for not… leaving me alone. Thank you for being here.”

He’s saying that, but he’s saying more, so much more. He’s saying thank you for staying when I told you to go. He’s saying thank you for knowing me better than I know myself. He’s saying thank you for caring for me when I don’t know how. He’s saying I love you and I can’t be alone if it means being without you. He’s saying nobody has ever loved me like this. He’s saying I never thought I had anybody before I had you.

You tighten your hold on him, and he does the same in return. Burying your face in his hair, inhaling the warm soap-clean smell of him, you smile through the burn in your eyes.

“I love you,” you tell him. “You don’t have to thank me for loving you.”

He huffs a laugh that doesn’t feel like it’s humored. You can still feel the smile against your skin, the hot burn of salt-wetness that soaks from his eyes, melting into you.

“I love you,” he murmurs back, voice warm like steam, absorbed by your skin. You kiss his skull, close your eyes, grounding yourself in the feel of him and in the knowledge that he’s here for another night, safe in his bed— your bed— your shared bed— with you, at least once more.

#fic rec

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druigswhores · 2 years

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Why do you know that rafe is gonna have a love interest in the next season?

@starsvck told me and I believe them 😓💯

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druigswhores · 2 years

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rafe cameron with a girlfriend that ISN’T me? In season three? A blonde white girl with blue eyes instead of a woc? OBX writers do you hate me I’m literally the perfect candidate for his gf.

#obx #obx 3 #outer banks #netflix #rafe cameron #rafe cameron x reader #drew starkey #obx3

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druigswhores · 2 years

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I’m probably going to stop updating gold rush bc I don’t have the time to write anything at all bc of university, work and my sisters getting married on Valentine’s Day so we’ve been running around prepping for that, i haven’t even had the time to read other ppls fics or go on my phone much BECAUSE of all this so I feel bad since a lot of ppl look forward to the updates,,,

i mean if I did continue the series it would be in march since that’s when I’ll not be busy with all this but by then the druig hype will die down so y’all let me know what to do !! 😕😕

i really do love the gold rush series and I love druig as a character but I feel like everyone’s hyperfixation on him is gone (except for mine 💔)

#druig #marvel druig #eternals fanfiction #eternals disney plus #eternals druig #druig x reader #druig fluff #druig series #marvel #mcu #marvel fanfiction #marvel actors #marvel eternals #barry keoghan #eternals x reader

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druigswhores · 2 years

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..i don’t think complaining about racism and a weirdo watching an unwanted sex tape that wasn’t consented to is chronically online but okay

plus i was having a conversation abt sebastian w raiya... so her list has some context to it 😚

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