#i'm sorry if this was a clusterfuck

[vaguely-concerned]

I have seen people question whether dios apate minor really needed to happen the way it did. it's the 'this could have been an email' of htn. 'augustine this did not have to be a threesome', I hear people saying. and boy do I have an obnoxious amount of things to say to protest this perfectly sensible assertion so here we go haha

1) yes it absolutely had to be like that. It says so on this piece of paper *hands you a piece of paper that says "because I said so and also it's narratively and thematically Sexy"* in my half-legible handwriting. seeing tamsyn muir describe harrow the ninth as a book about being a kid and realizing your parents probably had sex has given me such validation, I am unstoppable now. (to be serious for a moment, harrow the ninth is essentially a bildungsroman, and the threesome scene does a whole lot of thematic heavy lifting around harrow glimpsing elements of adulthood, relationships, and sexuality she clearly finds at the same time repulsive, bewildering and fascinating, and around opening her and especially our eyes to how much john is just a man with human longings still, under the god stuff. dios apate is crucial plot- and character-wise too -- it's a loadbearing threesome in terms of delivering the clues you need to piece together the mystery plot of the book, which is simply delightful -- but even more so thematically. and then the scene at the end where they confront john gives gideon some of that same opportunity to peek into adulthood and go '...well shit I guess', as a sort of mirror, just without the french kissing that time and more murder. the things magnus and abigail model for the girls about love and adulthood? mercy and augustine are providing the opposite-day batshit insane version of that fhdskjfa, you know, for contrast and spice)

2) listen... it gets lonely out there in deep space with your 'legendary unamorous' brother, two infant pathetic baby kitten sisters who you'll probably have to kill one day when you take another stab at god if they don't manage to get themselves killed along the way on their own, and the two people you've spent the last ten thousand years having separate yet connected married & divorced arcs with and also btw one of them is god... honestly a threesome over the dinner table is probably The most well-adjusted reaction one might hope for under those circumstances

3) on a characterization level I think Augustine is actually doing something incredibly deliberate with it: he's presenting John with yet another chance to admit what he did. which is notable especially since the deal he and mercy agree on as a condition for the threesome to happen at all seems to be that they're going to give the ol' godslaying another game try sooner rather than later. (I get the sense that it's not so much that he disagrees with her ultimate goal so much as that he thinks she's being dangerously indiscreet and hasty going about it, before. “though I think it will be the death of us,” huh.)

notice how he's structuring the whole thing: he's invoking the intimacy and love in their strange little threeway relationship and how long it's been by truly playing along with john's 'we're a happy family really when we're at home! :)' delusion (helped along by lowered inhibitions via enormous amounts of alcohol and what I've previously described as a joint mercy/augustine leyendecker themed thirst trap. ah, a classic). he brings up alecto and what happened to her -- or rather, he is clever enough to make john bring up alecto and how she is totally dead, right?? by seeming to make a careless statement that leads there and then acting contrite about it after. he (helped along by mercy, who I think realizes exactly what he's doing -- this is very much a two-man con) brings up how much they all loved their cavaliers, and wow funny how that's been haunting us for ten thousand years now huh :) wow, a lot of our other lyctor friends slash family sure are super dead in the name of some unknowable greater reason neither of us quite grasp and that you won't fucking tell us, aren't they. these are all the main grievances he and mercy confront john about at the end of the book, but put forth much more subtly and not phrased as an accusation -- he's baring his and mercy's vulnerabilities as bait, essentially. if john had, say, a conscience where his conscience should be instead of a black hole, it probably should have stirred something in him.

(also let me just say... the way augustine just takes a pneumatic drill to the TWO tender spots g1deon seems to have and then has the audacity to be like 'oh dear. did that upset him. ooof my bad *loooong dead-eyed slurp of his wine*' is just sooo... he's such a bitch!!! he's the only person who could ever have held their own in a ten-thousand-year bitch-off with mercy and I love him so much. well even if it wasn't all to get g1deon into murder range for harrow I think he wouldn't enjoy sticking around for the 'getting our tongues on god' part of the evening so maybe it's a kindness, really, and totally not pent-up aggression from the last twenty years or so breaking through)

he is all but shaking john by the lapels begging him to just... come clean about it already, to stop thinking he's still kidding everyone else along with himself. it's clear throughout the book that augustine knows exactly what john is at this point -- and all of the most cynical things he does say about it turn out to be distressingly right. john is always less sentimental than you'd think. john wouldn't forgive mercy, he will abandon in a heartbeat anything that isn’t necessary to him anymore, whether emotionally or in some other way. and still he seems to hold out some desperate absurd hope that the man he wants, the man he thought was there, is in there, somewhere deep deep down, if he just gives him the chance to show himself.

(mercy definitely has her own side of this whole thing, I'm just focusing more on augustine because this evening was like. his idea in the first place and I feel like we can Read Some Things into that fact lol. now that we have both ntn and htn to go from I sort of have this sense that the things augustine wants from john are more... personal? more interpersonal? they both love him equally, but mercy's love seems tinged slightly more towards the religious (augustine accuses her of knowing 'only worship without adoration', which like... also the eight house's entire Vibe lol) -- mercy at the end of that book is totally a person breaking up with GOD, not just with john -- while augustine's vibe is more like a man in the last not-with-a-bang-but-a-whimper days of a marriage that sort of felt like it could have been something real and good once but all your illusions about it have since been taken from you and trampled underfoot into the mud and you've had the divorce papers signed and ready in a drawer for over a year now, hell, as it turns out, is other people etc. lmao)

having a threesome over the dinner table with god is one thing, having a threesome over the dinner table centered on the one man and god who has yet again let you down in a way so fundamental it can barely fit into words and who you both still love in a way anyway, miserably, and also just reaffirmed your joint resolution to murder (all under the pretense that it gives your baby sisters the chance to murder your brother of ten thousand years yeah that's why this is happening no other underlying aching emotional motivations here haha)... listen mercy and augustine are simply on a different level, theologically. they've added horny shrimp colours to the religious spectrum. who else does it like them

#the locked tomb #harrow the ninth #augustine the first #mercymorn the first #john gaius #dios apate minor #bad cop worse cop and sorry cop #augustine 'when I die I want john to lower my casket #not so he can let me down one last time that's honestly a given at this point #if at all possible I just want to pull him down into the grave with me' quinque #first saint to serve the king undying #nona the ninth spoilers #nominally? in that I am saying there's relevant information to this polycule clusterfuck in it? eh let's just be safe lol #just when you thought I had no more thoughts about the terrible old people to unleash upon you... here I am again hahaha #the locked tomb meta #also yeah I mean I guess they didn't actually have to get their tongues on god on-page for all this to still be true #but I'm glad they did let them have some lyctor enrichment #hate fucking is actually lyctor love language hashtag did u kno

[about-faces]

TOP 22 TWO-FACE STORIES OF ALL TIME

14.) (Tie) “Two Down” from The Batman Chronicles #16 (1999) and “Just One More Thing...” (2015) from Convergence: The Question #1-2

The first and final (to date) stories of Harvey’s strange, tense, touching, and fraught sorta-friendship with Renee Montoya, best represented in this two mirroring tales by Greg Rucka told sixteen years apart. Theirs is one of DC’s most fascinating and underrated dynamics, recently recounted to powerful effect by Renee herself in John Ridley’s The Other History of the DC Universe, also strongly recommended. Here is how Ridley recontextualized the events of these two issues from Renee’s POV:

#I know this post is a clusterfuck and I'm sorry #but I simply don't know how to cram all my feels about this into a coherent post #top 22 twoface stories 2022 #harvey dent #renee montoya #twoface #two face #the question #greg rucka #batman #long post

[arklay]

tagged by @florbelles @leviiackrman @nuclearstorms @liurnia @morvaris & @swordcoasts to do this – thank you all, ily guys so so much! ♡

tagging: @aartyom @brujah @camelliagwerm @cultistbase @denerims @faarkas @indorilnerevarine @montliyets @reaperkiller @risingsh0t @shadowglens @snowthroat @solasan @steelport @trvelyans @virassan @voerman @windupcharibert @wrymbloods & anyone else who'd like to do this! ♡

OC SPEECH MANNERISMS.

— BASICS.

NO. OF SPOKEN LANGUAGES: 1 / 2 / 3+ [fluent in english, russian and french; proficient in swahili; knows conversational mandarin and japanese]

TONE OF VOICE: high / average / deep [gets higher when she is rambling and talking about something she is passionate about]

ACCENT: yes / no [cultivated australian]

DEMEANOUR: confident / shy / approachable / hostile / other [comes off as distant and haughty to most people]

POSTURE: slumped / straight / stiff / relaxed [relaxes around people she is comfortable with, which is like two people]

— HABITS.

head tilting / swaying / fidgeting / stuttering / gesturing / arm crossing / strokes chin / er, um, or other interjections / plays with hair or clothing / hands at hips / inconsistent eye contact / maintains eye contact / frequent pausing / stands close / stands at a distance

— COMPLEXITY.

VOCABULARY: ⚫⚫⚫⚫⚫

EMOTION: ⚫⚫⚪⚪⚪

SENTENCE STRUCTURE: ⚫⚫⚫⚫⚪

— PROFANITY.

FREQUENCY: ⚫⚪⚪⚪⚪

CREATIVITY: ⚫⚫⚪⚪⚪

BOLD ALL THAT APPLY.

arse / ass / asshole / bastard / bitch / bloody / bugger / bollocks / chicken shit / crap / cunt / dick / frick / fuck / horseshit / motherfucker / piss / prick / pussy / screw / shit / shitass / son of a bitch / twat / wanker

— THIS OR THAT.

straightforward or cryptic? / finding the right word or using the first word that comes to mind? / masculinity, neutrality, or femininity? / formalities or with abrasiveness? / praise or equivocation? / frankness or lies? / excessive or minimal hand gestures? / name-calling or magnanimity? / friendly or blunt?

— IMPORTANT QUESTIONS.

DO PEOPLE HAVE A HARD TIME HEARING OR UNDERSTANDING YOUR CHARACTER? almost always / frequently / sometimes / rarely / never [i would've said rarely but she will use scientific terms when she doesn't need to because she's pretentious]

DOES YOUR CHARACTER'S POINT COME ACROSS EASILY WHEN THEY SPEAK? almost always / frequently / sometimes / rarely / never

WOULD YOUR CHARACTER INITIATE CONVERSATIONS? almost always / frequently / sometimes / rarely / never [she would rather not engage in conversation if she can avoid it, but if she has it's because she either wanted something from the person or deemed them worthy of her attention]

WOULD YOUR CHARACTER BE THE ONE TO END CONVERSATIONS? almost always / frequently / sometimes / rarely / never

WOULD YOUR CHARACTER USE 'WHOM' IN A SENTENCE? yes / no / only ironically

YOUR CHARACTER WANTS TO MAKE A COUNTERPOINT, WHAT WORD DO THEY USE? but / though / although / however / perhaps / mayhaps

HOW DOES YOUR CHARACTER END CONVERSATIONS? walk away / ask if that's everything / say that's everything / give a proper goodbye / tell their company they're here / remain quiet / they don't [she will walk away in the middle of someone talking to her (she doesn't care), but if it is someone she works with and must show some level of respect to because of their position, she will announce her leave before doing so]

WHAT SOCIAL CLASS WOULD OTHERS ASSUME YOUR CHARACTER BELONG TO, HEARING THEM SPEAK? upper / middle / lower

IN WHAT WAYS DOES THE WAY YOUR CHARACTER SPEAK STAND OUT TO OTHERS? accent / vocabulary / tone / level / politeness / brusqueness / it doesn't

— BASICS.

NO. OF SPOKEN LANGUAGES: 1 / 2 / 3+ [fluent in tamrielic and bosmeris; proficient in nordic and dragon language]

TONE OF VOICE: high / average / deep [sounds deeper at times because they have a low, kind of hoarse voice]

ACCENT: yes / no [cyrodilic with some hints of other accents mixed in]

DEMEANOUR: confident / shy / approachable / hostile / other [distant and intimidating]

POSTURE: slumped / straight / stiff / relaxed [almost always as stiff as a board; the only time they aren't is when they're moving in a fight or with farkas]

— HABITS.

head tilting / swaying / fidgeting / stuttering / gesturing / arm crossing / strokes chin / er, um, or other interjections / plays with hair or clothing / hands at hips / inconsistent eye contact / maintains eye contact / frequent pausing / stands close / stands at a distance

— COMPLEXITY.

VOCABULARY: ⚫⚫⚪⚪⚪

EMOTION: ⚫⚪⚪⚪⚪

SENTENCE STRUCTURE: ⚫⚫⚫⚪⚪

— PROFANITY.

FREQUENCY: ⚫⚫⚫⚪⚪

CREATIVITY: ⚫⚪⚪⚪⚪

BOLD ALL THAT APPLY.

arse / ass / asshole / bastard / bitch / bloody / bugger / bollocks / chicken shit / crap / cunt / dick / frick / fuck / horseshit / motherfucker / piss / prick / pussy / screw / shit / shitass / son of a bitch / twat / wanker

— THIS OR THAT.

straightforward or cryptic? / finding the right word or using the first word that comes to mind? / masculinity, neutrality, or femininity? / formalities or with abrasiveness? / praise or equivocation? / frankness or lies? / excessive or minimal hand gestures? / name-calling or magnanimity? / friendly or blunt?

— IMPORTANT QUESTIONS.

DO PEOPLE HAVE A HARD TIME HEARING OR UNDERSTANDING YOUR CHARACTER? almost always / frequently / sometimes / rarely / never [they have a lower voice and often have to raise their voice to be heard]

DOES YOUR CHARACTER'S POINT COME ACROSS EASILY WHEN THEY SPEAK? almost always / frequently / sometimes / rarely / never

WOULD YOUR CHARACTER INITIATE CONVERSATIONS? almost always / frequently / sometimes / rarely / never [the only time they really do is if it's getting a job or to report back, but even then, they typically just show up and wait until someone else speaks first]

WOULD YOUR CHARACTER BE THE ONE TO END CONVERSATIONS? almost always / frequently / sometimes / rarely / never

WOULD YOUR CHARACTER USE 'WHOM' IN A SENTENCE? yes / no / only ironically

YOUR CHARACTER WANTS TO MAKE A COUNTERPOINT, WHAT WORD DO THEY USE? but / though / although / however / perhaps / mayhaps

HOW DOES YOUR CHARACTER END CONVERSATIONS? walk away / ask if that's everything / say that's everything / give a proper goodbye / tell their company they're here / remain quiet / they don't [it's the not understanding social cues for me. no, really, sometimes they have to be told they can go]

WHAT SOCIAL CLASS WOULD OTHERS ASSUME YOUR CHARACTER BELONG TO, HEARING THEM SPEAK? upper / middle / lower

IN WHAT WAYS DOES THE WAY YOUR CHARACTER SPEAK STAND OUT TO OTHERS? accent / vocabulary / tone / level / politeness / brusqueness / it doesn't

#as always no pressure to do this if you don't want to and if you'd prefer to not be tagged in things in the future just let me know!! #i did this for diana back when i first made her but i'm redoing it because i can >:) i'm sorry but she's my little brain worm i must #inflict her on you guys at all times!! plus i like this new layout people have done with this game and i wanna do that heheh #ithrenil's accent is just like a clusterfuck idk they are a sponge but also only contact for first 14 years of their life was their mum who #also had a weird accent because she'd been around for thousands of years and moved around a lot. but then ithrenil lived in cyrodiil for #18 years by themself and mixing with other people in the cities before heading to skyrim so it's kinda all over the place #anyways hi i'm going to be annoying cause it's my job. fight fic is finally done and up. gonna pin it for a lil bit i think... #oc: diana #oc: ithrenil #tag games.

[this-world-of-beautiful-monsters]

down and out and out of luck (we're spinning, but the needle's stuck)

Stephanie Brown is not the first former Robin to find out about her successor’s fate from the news. The experience is as brutal as it ever was.

_____

@amonthofwhump‘s 12 Days of Whumpmas Prompt: Too Late

Titles taken from the song Sinners by Barns Courtney.

You can find resources related to the current Roe crisis on my sideblog here.

(tw vomiting, canon-typical violence, no happy ending, major character death, past child abuse)

See also on Ao3

_________________________________

So, here's the thing:

Steph's walking down the street, back to her safehouse, fresh from an undercover op. Not the nightmare that St. Hadrian's was, thankfully, but still a bit of a rough business. She's got blood drying on her knuckles and a bit of ash in her hair, but she's breathing easy, satisfied that another branch of Leviathan has been snapped off for good.

It was really more her own op than anyone else's, self-contained in a way that reminded her of the early Spoiler days. The people she was working "with" didn't know a hell lot about Talia al Ghul's plan beyond the broader outline, so there wasn't a whole lot she could pass back to Bruce there, but she got some work done. Did some good.

She's powering up her phone as she walks, her real phone, not the burner that Talia's people used to keep track of her when they thought she was theirs, the one she spoke into when she wanted to channel Arthur Brown's most villainous drawl. She feels a bit of relief as she does it, like she's coming up for air, coming back to her world.

Then she sees the first item in her news alerts, and she stops breathing.

And Stephanie, okay, she has stopped breathing in this line of work. Not just having the wind knocked out of her, no, she's talking about the place between life and death where you find yourself standing when you least expect it. She has closed her eyes and teetered on the edge and it's a feeling, a memory, that never really leaves you.

She's standing there while people flow around her, standing like a lump in a strange city with no one who gives a second glance to the girl gaping at her phone. She's standing there and she can't breathe in a way that makes her feel dead all over again, except the dead aren't meant to hurt like this.

Steph looks down at the headline for a minute or an hour or an eternity and then she realizes it's buzzing in her hand, blasting the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles theme. She chose it to be funny; she can't quite remember the joke.

Brown, do something about that inane music.

The phone is so cold against her ear. When did it get so cold?

"Steph?" Her Batman--not the Batman, her Batman--sounds exhausted, wrung out. He sounds like he'd been crying, raw and burned out. "Steph, I need to--"

"Is it true?" she asks. It hurts to speak, like forcing out words on a hospital bed.

Dick lets out a choked, frantic sound. "You--no. No, I was supposed to get to you in time. You weren't supposed to see it on, on the fucking, on the fucking news, not like, like..."

"Shut up." The words feel like spitting blood. "Shut up, this is, this is bullshit. This is another stupid fucking plan like faking his death or naming him after Tim's car. This is Bruce being an asshole, this is another test."

He lets out a sob and Steph's knees start to buckle. "It's not, Steph. I'm so sorry."

"You don't know--"

"I was there. I saw, saw the light leave his, his eyes."

Eyes. Big eyes, suspicious eyes, bruised eyes, lost eyes. Sometimes they flashed green, sometimes they looked bluer, sometimes they were a dark and thoughtful brown. She never could figure out the deal with her Robin's eyes.

"I held him, Steph."

“No, you didn’t,” Her voice is building to a scream. "You didn’t, you stupid fucking partner, put him on the phone--”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry--”

“Shut up, shut up.” Her words tangle with his, like that time they tried to out-sing-scream each other on patrol and Damian called them disgraces. “Shut up--”

"Hey, lady," someone says. "Calm down--"

"Steph," Dick whispers, like a prayer. Batman reaching for his Batgirl across the miles, hands joined over a spreading pool of blood. Calling her Steph and not Brown, and she never thought that something like that would hurt so much.

A body jostles hers. The phone slips from nerveless fingers and this time she lets it fall, watches it smash to a million pieces in the street. Steph doubles over and vomits on the remains.

Then she's running, sprinting past red lights and swirling crowds, feet smacking against the ground like bullets. She runs like she can escape the tears stinging in her eyes or the scream caught in her throat, like she can escape the words ROBIN DEAD IN GOTHAM smeared across cyberspace.

Damian, she thinks.

She misses the funeral.

It's rushed, fuck knows why; maybe Bruce was trying to get ahead of the Leagues, keeping them from stealing Damian back again. Maybe he just couldn't stand the idea of Damian cooling above ground for so long. Maybe he wanted to punish her and Cass and everyone who wasn't in the immediate area, personally. She will never know with that man.

To be honest, she does seriously consider digging up Damian's corpse and hauling him back to Nanda Parbat--homicidal rages be damned, Steph's dealt with the little shit over sugar-highs and violence-happy lows, she can deal with this. But there's no way she's getting out of that situation alive and the thought of leaving Damian, confused and hurt and alone with the people responsible for this mess in the first place, makes her a little sick.

Besides, she has more immediate concerns. Steph knows what she's going to do long before she walks into the Batcave, eyes red from more than jet lag, buzzed on shitty airport coffee, shaking all over.

Her hair is a mess and every time she has to brush a lock out of her eyes, she remembers Damian braiding it, his fingers more delicate and careful than she had ever expected. I used to do this with Mother, he'd said.

Jason's memorial glints at her and she remembers sitting in the cave with Dick back in his Batman days, Damian sleeping beneath a tangle of wires between them after one fucked-up mission or another. Dick's voice, soft and weary, telling her a story about dead Robins and missed funerals and truths you weren't meant to learn from the news, Dick telling her about leaving his own home with an aching, bloodied face.

"Bruce," she says, dead calm, and he turns to look at her. Or rather, at her fist.

It's a harder blow than the time she slapped him, back when he fucked with her day while pretending to be dead. Back then, she hadn't none that he'd been hiding from Dick and Damian, that he'd left them alone with fucking Elliot for as long as he could before getting off his ass and coming home.

He staggers backward, reaching out to brace himself on a nearby table. If he was more himself, he probably would have either ducked or not flinched at all. As it is, he just stares at her, one hand pressed to his cheek, face perfectly blank.  

"Hi," Steph says. She doesn't mention that the second time she'd called Dick, he'd been given sedatives and loopy enough to tell her that Bruce had almost given Damian up to the League, a tidbit that had left Steph throwing up again as Arthur Brown's face melted into Talia al Ghul's behind her eyes. She doesn't talk about Tim's text, saying about how they'd spotted Bruce kissing Talia like an idiot on the Batcave's security footage, for whatever fucking reason.

She doesn't scream like she wants to, yell I left him in your hands, I trusted you to figure it out, I thought you knew what you were doing. You broke me on the altar of Robin, you burned Jason, you fractured Dick and Tim in ways I'll probably never fully see, but Damian was supposed to survive. He was supposed to fly.

None of that, because if Steph opened her mouth wide enough to let it out, she'd rip open a black hole buried inside her, the one where Arthur Brown and her baby and No Man's Land and Roman's laughter and the sharp claws of her nightmares all wait. She'd suck in the cave around them, and it wouldn't be enough, it wouldn't be enough, it'd just break her in two and she can't have that. She can’t remember Damian if she goes mad today.

So, Steph just shrugs and says, "Good to see you." Then she turns and walks away.

"By the way, if you hang his suit up like a taxidermied head in here, I'll tell the entire world who Batman is," she calls over her shoulder.

She thinks she hears him call out for her as she climbs the stairs. She doesn't look back.

The house is quiet around her, still and dark, sheets hanging limply over furniture. Tim is passed out at his desk, surrounded by piles of papers. Titus is sprawled in front of the cold fireplace, breathing gently, while Alfred-the-cat's eyes gleam suspiciously from the shadows. Alfred-the human is sitting in the same chair he was in when she arrived, sipping from the same methodical cup of tea.  

"I believe Master Grayson is out visiting the young master's grave," he says, dead calm, when she asks, like Steph can't see the dull look in his eye or the slight rattle of his teacup. It makes her feel just a little bad about kind of wanting to punch him, too, for letting Damian go that night.

She nods and slinks away; she doesn't have the courage to deal with Dick's face or Damian's grave right now, but she can't quite bring herself to leave, either. Her feet drag her upstairs, down the gently creaking hallway, towards the room she's only really visited once or twice.

The door gives easily, and that feels so wrong. Damian was the kind of kid that always kept his door locked, always wanting to be in control of his exits. The thought makes her hesitate, wondering if this is somehow a violation of his privacy, but the thought of his room being left cold and empty feels wrong, too.

So, she steels her resolve and makes her way inside, blinking as her eyes adjust to the dark. She can make out the glint of swords on the walls, the outline of his books on their shelves, the flicker of moonlight in the window, Alfred and Titus's beds lined up neatly on the floor. And she--she can see the body of a small boy, slumped across the bed.

It says far, far too much that her first thought is horror, outrage. Did one of them really dig the body up and leave it like that, prop it up like Jason's uniform in another hideous dimply? It takes a few seconds for her to think maybe, maybe...

But no, hope is crushed before it even has a chance to form when the boy shifts slightly and she sees the flicker of red hair, the curve of a shoulder covered by a flannel jacket. He's sprawled across the bed awkwardly, without getting under the neatly folded sheets; clearly, he didn't intend to fall asleep at all.

Steph hovers there, not sure if she should slip back out or not, but the door decides for her by slipping close with a thump. Shit. Colin Wilkes jolts awake, automatically fumbling for the light at one hand as he rubs at his face with the other.

"Dames...?" He sees her and stiffens, reddened eyes going wide. "I--I'm so sorry, Ms. Batgirl, I didn't mean--"

"It's okay, sweetie," Steph says, keeping her voice gentle. She crosses the room, letting him see her hands (Colin's background is murky, but something about the way he acts and his history in the system has always reminded her too much of home), and plops down in Damian's old chair. "I don't mind, really. And call me Steph."

Damian would fill her with holes if she ever dared to call him "sweetie," and laugh at the idea of using her nickname, but Colin has always been different. Better at being a kid, in his own way, even if he fights crime in the body of a gigantic man. And to be honest, she's always had a soft spot for the boy; call her sentimental, thinking of her old days as a self-starter who wanted to do good.

"Did you go to the funeral?" she asks. It sounds better than Did he let you go? She's not sure how Bruce feels about Colin, to be honest--sure, he managed not to be a dick about Colin attacking him under Scarecrow's fear gas, but he's still spewing that "no metas in Gotham" nonsense, and well...his headspace as a whole is a mystery to her right now.

She really hopes he doesn’t act like an asshole here, because then she’d be really mad. It's not like Colin asked for this shit to happen to him anymore than Damian did; they both just choose what to do about it afterward. The thought makes it a little hard to breathe when she thinks about it for too long.

"I...yeah." He shrugs. "It was pretty down-low cause nobody's supposed to know Dami's, um, y'know...." Colin swallows hard. "I didn't stick around for long, but I think the cops came and arrested Mr. Wayne."

"Seriously?" Even if she's pissed at Bruce, that sounds like a brutal turn of events.

"I dunno what happened," Colin shrugs. "I mean, they let him go. I don't think he's gonna go to prison like that thing with the Lynd lady."

Right. Steph had almost forgotten about that--first Vesper in the bedroom and Talia in the Batcave, like a goddamn game of Clue. They're sitting in a house full of corpses, aren't they?

She tries to focus on the living boy in front of her. "How're you holding up, huh?"

Colin looks down at his hands, rubbing one hand over another. There's a faint scar on his right palm and she wonders where it came from. If Damian knew that story.

"I was runnin' around, trying to help some of the kids Leviathan fucked up," he says softly. "Then I looked up and...it was on the billboard, you know, where they show the heroes and stuff sometimes? It was all over the news. He looked so..." A low, guttural sigh. "I know Dames was small, real small, but he never felt small. Does that make sense?"

Steph nods. "Yeah, he was larger than life. And he always wanted you to know it, didn't he?" She tries to smile, but it feels flat and dull.

Colin cracks a wan, short-lived attempt at a smile. "Mr. Ni--Dick, he came to the orphanage. Said how sorry he was, got me to the funeral. He just kept crying. I mean, I, I was, too...I..." He rubs his eyes again, harder this time.

"Dami, he--he told me his mom was the most beautiful lady in the world, that she was the best fighter he'd ever known, that she was smart and wise and brave. Then he told me I had to stay away from her, 'cause she wasn’t always herself, and there was a part of her might kill me. And then she....and I know that parents do things like that to their kids sometimes, but I don't know why."

"I don't know, either." And she’s been asking herself that question for a very long time.

"Were you, were you there, Ms--Steph?" Colin's voice is small, smaller than a body on a screen. He's not asking about the funeral. "Did you see him when..."

"No." Her mouth feels dry. "I wasn't there." Too late, too late.

"I shoulda been there," Colin whispers, like he's plucking the words straight out of her head. "I should--should have--" He slumps over, head in his hands, sobbing. "I'm sorry..."

"No," Steph whispers, and to her horror she finds her voice starting to rattle and break, too. She forces herself to stand and make her over to the bed, to Damian's bed.

"Colin, can I hug you?" She knows it's cruel to keep comparing the two boys like this, but she can't help remembering...

Damian, can I hug you? Just this once, I'm cold. (He'd had a bruise on his small cheek, and he'd been staring at the river for far too long, but making it about herself seemed to make things easier)

Tt. If you insist.

"Okay, Ms. Batgirl," Colin whispers, and she doesn't bother correcting him as she drops onto the bed and throws her arms around his skinny shoulders, tugging him close. He sobs into her chest and Steph lets herself sob back, because apparently, she still has some tears to shed.

"It wasn't your fault," she whispers, to him and to herself--to him because he needs it, and herself because if she can't believe it, she'll go crazy, or worse, turn into Bruce. "It wasn't your fault, you hear me?"

"It feels like it," Colin forces out. "And it hurts so much. I miss him so much."

"I know," Steph whispers, because that's all she can give him, that and the tears that drop onto his hair as they weep together in a dead boy's room. "I know, kiddo. I know."

#ignores the reboot because fuck the reboot #the eighty-year-clusterfuck that is Bruce Wayne's parenting #posting here because I'm having issues with AO3 #amow winter whumperland 2022 #angst #hurt/comfort #dc #stephanie brown #batfamily #damian wayne #batgirl #colin wilkes #damian and colin #bruce wayne #kind of bruce unfriendly sorry #batman incorporated #past major character death #crying #grief/mourning #dick grayson #tim drake #alfred pennyworth #winter whumperland #past child abuse #trauma #vomiting #robin #batfamily fic #dysfunctional family #canon-typical violence

[wonderful-bellies]

BOI I'm a stressed out mess atm

#apologies for slowness lately #lack of meds as well as a clusterfuck of anxiety #and tonight it's hitting me hard fkdj #all I wanna so is draw vorey and gt things featuring stupid fuckin fnaf shit #i hate this I'm so sorry djsjsjska #medli rambles

[cryingyetcourageous]

my shy, anonymous hot take of the evening (which u don't necessarily Need to publish, i dont want to kick off a Discussion i just want you specifically to know) is that rpers who are close to canon are actually so refreshing and i prefer it tbh. bless u and all u do

[[Okay no - this means a LOT and gives me chance to rant <3 To this day, and probably for the rest of my life, I still remember that the VERY first anon I got on my previous Raivis blog in 2011/2012ish was someone insisting that I play him wrong because "Latvia shouldn't be a coward. It's insulting." I didn't have the words to argue back when I was 15/16. I gave some half-assed response, but it didn't get the crux of the issue. Fandom often boils characters down into two types: stoic, deadpanned ones who are unwavering in the face of danger, who carefully control each reaction to only show what they wish to be shown. . . and shitlords who are chaotic and quirky, and who will quip out one-liners in the face of danger, but never show deeper emotional experiences beyond what is needed for plot or memes. Being scared is inherently viewed as weak. Raivis is not weak. Raivis is terrified, overwhelmed, anxious, ruminating, and easily spooked, but he is not weak. There is strength in kindness. To see some of the worst the world has to offer, to be broken down over and over through multiple empires hellbent on exploiting land and people they refuse to respect, to be trapped in a physical form much smaller and more feeble than those around him, to have all that and still choose kindness: That is strength. To look at the pain one has gone through and stubbornly refuse to let it harden one's heart, to reach out to those even more vulnerable than one's own self, to hold true to one's morals even when no one would blame him for faltering or being selfish: That is strength. Looking at an uncaring world and daring to care anyways: That is strength.

This isn't even going into his being a literal genius, "an astounding guy," capable of "doing incredible things." Canon quotes. However, these details are tossed aside because he's also a crybaby, unassertive, and reactive. Time and time again, anxiety is only treated as an interesting character trait if it's the quiet, creeping dread that isn't too obtrusive to other characters or the readers. The moment it becomes a problem for those around them, it's an annoying character, never mind that high reactivity is common in PTSD-related anxiety, never mind that mental health struggles are, in fact, often fucking intrusive.

Struggling is not weak. Crying and fearing and worrying are not weak. Vulnerability is not weak. Emotions are not weak. Canon Raivis is not weak and I will fight anyone who says otherwise. THANKS FOR COMING TO MY TED TALK.

#can you tell this clusterfuck of a little survivorman has been my hyperfixation for 13 years? almost HALF MY LIFE? #i have no mouth and i must scream #And don't get me started on Liet??? #I'm sorry the dude literally called AN ALL AROUND GREAT GUY who is strong as hell and always ready to defend those he cares for is... #disgusting and pathetic? pitiable? All things I've seen people say #DUDE WILL BAKE YOU KUGELIS AND CLEAN YOUR HOME AND BE FULL MOM FRIEND #BUT ALSO WILL TERRIFY YOUR ENEMIES WITH MASTER SWORDSMANSHIP AND STILL FIND TIME TO REEL YOU IN WITH MORE PRACTICAL MINDSETS #GET YOU A MAN WHO DOES IT A L L I S2G

[cashewally-sarcastic]

trying to explain having a big family is really like

"okay so [grandparent] had [# of siblings] and those siblings all had [# of kids] and [grandparent] have [# of kids] which are my aunts/uncles with the biggest age difference being [big # of years] and they all had [#s of kids] which are cousins who have [# of kids] and then there's me who's younger than [cousin generation A] but older than [cousin generation B] but my [grandparent] was the second youngest so other branches of [Family tree] are way older and have more people and-"

#recently got reminded that the giant reunion is next year and my friend was confused on why i was laughing #had to explain all of this to explain that i know no one there and it's always fun to talk to random people who i'm vaguely related to #we also get to wear the rainbow to specify which person we're descended from! #ALSO learned someone within that clusterfuck of family has the EXACT SAME NAME like first middle last is the exact same as me and it's fun #sorry for clogging your dash

[queen-of-bel]

my seating assignment at work changed today and got lost like 5 times in my own office looking for my new desk how embarrassing is that

#i moved from the 37th floor up to the 38th so i also had to move everything on my desk up #which took legit 3 trips bc i have sm stuff #and then i started unloading at the wrong desk so.. #good thing I'm always the first one in the entire office so nobody witnesses how embarrassing that was #this last month has been a clusterfuck and a half I'm so glad i have Thursday and Friday off #maybe I'll have time to finally get through everything in my inbox SORRY it's taking me forever been so busy with work and stuff 🙏 #amelia rambles

[kromer]

Same ones as Parker, 7, 16, 20, 21, 22, 24, 26 and 28, but Kazuki instead of Shin

7. A quote of them that you remember: I'm going to skip this one just because I haven't translated all of QDS3 yet ^^;

16. A childhood headcanon: Again more or less canon but he had growing up, his relationships were pretty much nonexistent. Zero friends and familial connections on life support. This has extended through to his adult life and as a result he has somewhat skewed ideas of attachment

20. A weird headcanon: MBTI is pseudoscience and this isn't really a weird headcanon, but he's a textbook INFJ. I don't have anything weirder than this

21. When do you think they were at their happiest?: Naturally, when he was together with Kei.

22. When do you think they were at their lowest?: During and after the Sera-induced psychic mental breakdowns.

24. What do you think is a secret they have that they never told anyone?: There have been times (during his stay at the EGG) when he's nearly accepted Shin as a "replacement" for Kei, so to speak. These instances are abruptly followed by a "why the fuck would I think that?" burst of lucidity and further spirals of disbelief, self hatred, etc

26. When do you think they were being “themselves” the most?: Also when he was with Kei. And in a way his descent into insanity at the EGG

Thank you for the ask :D

#inbox #pobopolybius #(feel free to send more of these btw i'm having a blast) #sorry if this is kind of fucked up but tbf everyone in this novel is terrible #so it makes for a total clusterfuck of misery

[wrecking]

i don't wanna keep talking about it because i know it's annoying but i'm still so shook up over the emergency room visit and like, in theory tomorrow will be at least some resolution of it (my first appointment with a normal doctor now that the Threat is deconfirmed) but like idk it's just constantly on my mind and it's making me anxious and i hate it bc i just wanna lay in bed and cry but i can't and also everyone else probably thinks i'm insane for being so worked up over it still. knowing how things go with them and i, if i said anything about it to my parents, they'd probably mock me for it

#d #also hi i'm doing blog queue / draft cleanup rn and a lot more aesthetic posts are coming up #the blog's already trended towards them for a while but now they are the vast majority of posts so i hope you like seeing them #back on topic of the post i think some of this is bc everything i'm excited for is either delayed or cancelled like #was looking forward to a new t*ylor rerecord this summer and a nintendo direct this month #and splatoon 3 in july... none of which have happened #end of july has some good stuff and my bday is early august but school is like a week later :( #oh and i still have to sign up for that on wednesday cuz their site was under maintenance or something #which is just so cool bc i was hoping to do it during the clusterfuck so i could just emotionally not have to anticipate it & gruel over it #oh well what else can you do #sorry i'm actually somewhat venting for once bc i am not doing well lol #at least i'm making a lot of wc and am almost done with my minecraft house #still have to get back onto working on game and try to get as much done before school starts as possible #same with wc cuz idk how school is gonna affect my workflow yet #and then splat in september... a lot #back on topic part 2 but. when that whole er thing was happening i considered coming out to my parents cuz like. why not ykn #like what's the worst that could happen i'm literally in the er if they react weird it's a bad look for them #but i decided not to and now i'm like. well now what #just hoping things work out ok. maybe being 24 will be better

[fstbmp-a]

It crossed my mind and maybe it's the 3 am unable to sleep brain talking but, that Hooters promo really ruined any chance I had to be like "yeah these characters are kids". Like, yeah, no. It's... it's weirder to say the cast are teenagers and children for a franchise that is openly tied to a restaurant that's about sex appeal.

Like, for my own sanity, I can't see the vast majority of the cast as teenagers barring the far more blatant ones like Cream. Which, y'know, she wasn't even in Forces so that's a bullet dodged.

#my kingdom ;; ooc #sorry i'm just rambling aloud to the dash because like. yeah no that really shattered the illusion for me entirely #because otherwise i'd have to be cool with things that'd put me on a watchlist which yeah no #that and everything being scrubbed about ages as of late and people only being able to reply with vague answers #of like “they're sonic's age etc” really. makes it seem like they're trying to brush that under the rug without outright saying it #so the cast can retroactively have that ageless vibe. which doesn't work that well when they already at some point made actual ages #it's such a clusterfuck and it's so funny because like. it's not nearly as big of a deal to them as it is to the fandom i'm sure so like #that's never gonna get a definitive answer from the higher-ups whatsoever aksjdbvsajkh #anyways that's all i had to say i'm unable to fall asleep at 3-4 am so you all get mirth rambling to themselves

[mistystarshine]

If one more person accuses me of being a Spuffy/Bangel shipper trying to bait the other ship, I am going to scream. I ship both, I just have a lot of thoughts about how certain aspects of the show as a whole were handled

#The creators didn't know what they were going to do with Angel #Where they were going with him #Or even what he was at first #And I believe the early seasons suffered from that and they could have had a more impactful arc if it had been planned from the get-go #And maybe some things moved around #And I love Spuffy but season six was a clusterfuck #And seeing red was an abomination #And I do disagree with certain popular takes regarding the ship #These things can co-exist #And I can ship both #Also this isn't meant to show up in the tags #But I don't know what nonsense tumblr is trying now so if it does I'm sorry #But I'm not gonna start censoring my posts like this is tiktok

[sheisjoeschateau]

"Oh, so we DO love Steve..." | PART I

Steve Harrington x Bauman!fem!reader enemies to lovers, heavy angst, hurt/comfort, upside down mayhem, S2-S4, post S4 universe hot-take, end-of-the-world / dystopian setting, ugly fights turned smut (...but with hella plot). 18+

WHEN THE UNEXPECTED NIECE OF MURRAY BAUMAN GETS THROWN IN THE MIX, THE GANG HAS NO IDEA JUST WHAT THEY'RE IN FOR. SCRATCH THAT - STEVE DOESN'T KNOW. YOU GET ALONG WITH EVERYONE WELL. YOU BANTER WITH THE ADULTS, WHO APPRECIATE YOUR HELP. THE KIDS LOVE AND WORSHIP YOU. YOU'RE HELPFUL ALL AROUND. BUT AS FAR AS STEVE IS CONCERNED, YOU'RE JUST NUISANCE. AFTER ALL, YOU'RE THE REASON HE LOST THE LOVE OF HIS LIFE AND MISSED OUT ON A LIFE THAT "COULD'VE BEEN." IF YOU HAD JUST KEPT YOUR SORRY ASS OUT OF THE PICTURE... IF YOU HAD NEVER GONE WITH NANCY AND JONATHAN AFTER THEY LEFT YOUR WHACK-JOB UNCLE, MURRAY BAUMAN'S, BUNKER? HE WOULD BE HAPPY. SO F*CKING HAPPY. BUT HERE YOU WERE. YOU WERE BASICALLY THE COOLER (...AND SURE, MUCH MORE ATTRACTIVE) FEMALE VERSION OF MURRAY BAUMAN. YOU WERE SARCASTIC, QUICK-WITTED, TOO SMART FOR YOUR OWN GOOD, AND APPARENTLY BUILT FOR THE WAR. SURE, YOU WEREN'T AS BRASH AS YOUR UNCLE. BUT IN STEVE'S EYES, YOU WERE SOMEHOW FAR MORE OBNOXIOUS. HE DOWNRIGHT HATED YOU. HE WILL FOREVER HATE YOU... BUT WILL HE?

DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT GIVE PERMISSION FOR MY WORK TO BE COPIED AND/OR REPOSTED ON HERE OR ANY OTHER PLATFORM, OR PUT INTO ANY AI PROGRAMS. THIS IS AN 18+ BLOG, MDNI.

An original fanfiction series, written by Misha St. James.

⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆ SERIES MASTERLIST ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

***************************************

I did not proof-read this after Tumblr gave me hell trying to share. So pls excuse possible typos. hehe

***************************************

Let's just get to the point, shall we?

Once upon a time, a young boy named Will Byers went missing. Later, he was found in an alternate dimension by the world's #1 mom and a cynical cop turned hero. A girl with a shaved head had telekinetic superpowers, befriend's Will's four loyal friends along the way and helping them track down their missing party member. Then, whatever the hell was on the other side - whatever was in this...upside down...took back Eleven. She'd been missing ever since that dreadful winter.

Fast forward to now: you're sitting in your uncle's bunker, looking at his wild display of efforts.  Papers, files, whiteboards covered in multiple words, arrows, sketches - all in different colored markers. Murray Bauman was on a mission, and he would be damned if that grumpy, cynical smart-ass known as Jim Hopper honestly thought that he could dismantle his efforts.  Nice try, chum. Game on. Thankfully, you'd gone to school with Barbara Holland. That's whose parents had assigned the task of searching for her to your uncle. Murray was asking you tons of questions, and you were glad to help. It meant spending time with the only family member you cared for, despite his wackiness. You guys got each other. Bantered well. Got shit done. Honestly, it was also a great way of drinking safely and not with a bunch of rowdy teenagers at some stupid party. You got along just fine with everyone at school. But damn, they could all be annoying.  ...especially Steve fucking Harrington, who was now the topic of conversation. You know, given that his house is where Barbara was last seen. "It just isn't making sense," your uncle huffed, raking his hands through his oily dark hair.  You sipped on the glass of vodka that your uncle had poured you, hissing at the strong taste. Leaning across the coffee table, seated on his couch, you tried to connect the dots with him. "I'm telling you, someone in that group of teens knows what's up. Or at least has an idea." Your uncle swigged at his vodka, defeated but ruthlessly trying to piece together his clusterfuck of scattered evidence across his wall. "Well then, guess we better grill 'em."

And that's how you come into the picture. When Nancy and Jonathan came to seek out Murray. And when they arrive, they're surprised to see you. They recognize you from school. Jonathan took several classes with you. In fact, the two of you got along well at Hawkins High. No, you weren't close. But you both were cool. Nancy, on the other hand, didn't know anything about you. Just that you took political science with Barbara, and got straight A's across the board. You could've been class valedictorian. But you were not looking for any sort of title that demanded pressure or attention. At least not in high school. Career wise? Sure. Not here, though. Not Hawkins. "Your timeline is wrong," Nancy is saying, making you and Bauman freeze.  Nancy is telling you that the girl with the buzzed hair is not Russian. She is, in fact, from Hawkins lab. And her name is...Eleven? So they do know something. And something turns out to be everything.

Jonathan sits you both down to relay everything to you both. And woof, does it give you guys a headache. Strangely, though... it makes a whole lot more sense than some mundane explanation of sorts. Obviously though, that puts you all in a tough spot where you'll all need to put your heads together. So the two classmates of yours stay, sharing in chilled Smirnoff and having to endure the hilarity that ensues between you and your uncle. You and Murray both banter well with the two of them. Jonathan finds you to be hilarious. Nancy finds you intimidating. Very intimidating. You’re quick witted, darkly humored and independent. But there is a reserved, mysterious sort of feminine energy to you, despite your more masculine strengths and bluntness. Over glasses of stiff vodka, you all come to the conclusion on how to go about exposing the truth about Barbara Holland's disappearance: water it down.

At the end of the night, you're all winding down -- you and your uncle having convinced the two lovebirds to stay. But when you're telling them they can take your uncle's guest room while you take the couch, Jonathan's asking if he can take the couch. You blink. Huh? ...surely Nancy is not still with --

"Okay, I'm confused," your uncle's saying. "What's going on here? Lovers quarrel?"

You cock an eyebrow, leaning back into the loveseat.

But Jonathan and Nancy are then talking over each other with weird, flustered excuses...saying they're just friends.

You and your uncle bust out laughing. And then you're shrinking back in your seat, knowing what's coming: one of your Uncle Murray's lovebird witchdoctor speeches that he barrels into anytime that two delusional people have convinced themselves that they aren't in love. Or at the very least, not into each other. 

Uncle Murray is breaking them down, one at a time. He's reading Jonathan like an angsty teen novel, seeing right through him and his brooding, mysterious energy.  Trust issues, thanks to daddy issues. Yikes, that makes you sip some more drink.

And then he's onto Nancy, saying that she's harder to read. But he manages anyway.  It's the Bauman way.

He's telling her that she's likely like everyone else, "afraid of what would happen if you accepted yourself for you who you really are." He looks at you. "Am I in the right ballpark?"

You nod, swallowing the last drop of vodka in your cup. "That...and afraid of that might happen if she didn't retreat back to the safety of someone familiar."

Nancy looks bewildered. But more than that, she looks caught. 

"Name?" your uncle is prodding, snapping his fingers.  "Name."

You and Jonathan both say it. "Steve."

Uncle Murray's face is priceless. He feigns adoration, putting on a baby voice as he repeats the name. "Dawh. Steve. We like Steve."

"Yes," Nancy laughs nervously.  Eek, you think.

"But we don't love Steve..." Your uncle's words floor Nancy.

And when Nancy's saying something about still being with Steve, insisting that she loves him, you roll your eyes. Even scoffing, getting her attention. Maybe if the vodka weren't in your system, you wouldn't be so bold. But Jonathan's mopey look just gives you more confidence.

"Boom, ladies and gents," you say with a grin. "Second lie of the evening." "The hell was the first one?" Jonathan asks, blinking. "You guys being just friends." You and your uncle say something along the same lines, simultaneously. You both laugh together, clinking glasses. The two not lovebirds just squirm awkwardly in their seats. Finally, you sigh. "Look. You guys don't wanna give up the ghost? Be my guest. I'll happily keep my bed." You stand up, ready to turn in. But not until casting them one last work, pointing a finger. "But if I were you two? I'd cut the bullshit and just share the damn bed." Murray snorts, rising to stand as well. He stretches. "Welllllp. I'm turning in for the night." You begin mounting the stairs, hollering: "Better act fast, kiddos. At least before this poison in my system knocks me out cold. Don't worry, Nancy, I don't snore. So if you do choose me, you're safe." "But that's so lame," Murray adds to that wryly, heading off to his room. You both tell each other goodnight, leaving the two angsty teens to decide their fate. All you know is that Nancy ends up walking out and not coming back, at one point in the night.  Yeah, thought so. Breakfast the next morning is even more hilarious. You and your uncle ask every single question that drips with innuendo that you ever possibly could. And it's worth every fucking minute.

Murray's gonna need to keep that couch cleaned. To your surprise, Murray sends you off with Nancy and Jonathan, but given that you want to go and see it all for yourself you don't mind. You’re basically his little spy.  Most uncles send off their nieces and nephews with some good advice, maybe a packed lunchbox or snacks, and a warm hug. 

Yours, however, sends you off with a full bottle of vodka, a thick wad of cash and some fun sarcastic banter. But he headlocks you in for a hug, and you cackle. He really is a nutcase, and man you can't help but love him. He is so not the parental type. Yet somehow, he's practically raised you. And in your opinion, you're pretty well-prepared for the world. More than most, in Murray's opinion. So off you go with Nancy Wheeler and Jonathan Buyers, and they both honestly enjoy your company. It helps them get past their umm...well...awkward new reality. That new reality that comes post-sex, after a long ass time of playing the tip-toe game. The sexual tension between them is hysterical to you. But you keep your thoughts to yourself for now. The vodka did most of the talking for you last night.

When you both arrive at wherever the hell your destination is, it's dark outside. And if you're being honest, it's pretty creepy. You're somewhere near the woods, and as you all walk closer you're beginning to see lights approaching you...along with a handful of shadowed figures. 

Fuck, you literally just got here.

But then, after a tense several moments... Nancy and Jonathan call out to them. You jump, startled at the fact that they do it so confidently. But the name that they call out suddenly makes it all make sense. "STEVE?" "NANCY...?" And that's how you became a crucial part of the most royal pain in the ass, King Steve's, life.

#steve harrington angst #steve harrington #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington stranger things #steve harrington smut

[writingoddess1125]

Yes Buggy and his hot wife are Roger and Jessica Rabbit, but if I may submit this comparison to the council:

✨Buggy and his wife are The Grinch and Martha May Whovier✨

Oh It Is ON!

In the spirit of the Winter Holiday Spirits! We are doing a Christmas Spin on My Effect Series!

So get you a egg nog with 90% rum maybe some holiday 'cigarettes' sit back and enjoy this clusterfuck idea! 🍃 🚬

P.S IM REALLY HIGH WHILE WRITING THIS SO ITS PROBABLY ALL OVER THE PLACE! ENJOY!

The Grinch and Martha May Effect 🎄

If you like my shit, support me on Ko-Fi because recession!

Link to Main Masterlist

• This Crusty Bastard has had the heart of the most beautiful women in the world.

• And didn't even realize it-

• You had all met on Gol D Roger's ship- Buggy being a snot nosed apprentice with his gaggle of friends- While you being one of the few girls on the ship was a cup bearer for your father. Silvers Rayleigh.

• This made you incredibly off limits to all, Sheltered by a life of luxury your father provided as your only real 'job' was to fill his cup. Even Gol D Roger the famed Captian spoiled you in cute dresses and expensive bows.

• Turning you into the Doll of the Oro Jackson.

• A Princess Wrapped in Silver and Gold

• You still remembered the first day you ment him-

• Both of you 13 years old, fresh faced kids still needing the guidance of adults.

• You'd snuck off from your normal areas, wanting to explore the ship some more. That's till you saw a boy- His face covered in what seemed to be gunpowder as he filled homemade bombs with total care.

• His blue hair peaking out of the red hat and drawing you to step a big closer to get a better look.

• The Tull of your sparkling dress catching the corner of his eye as he spun around quickly holding a knife out.

• Then, Ocean eyes met Your own and time seemed to slow. Ever so slightly- Your cheeks warming as you gave a soft smile.

• "Hello" Your little voice slipped out, Buggy stating at you with unsure interest. A crooked smile on his lips as he greeting you quickly- "H-Hi!"

• "Is something wrong with your nose? It looks kinda funny" Buggy glares hard at you, making you blink in question at his reaction.

• Buggy covering his face, his ocean eyes starting to cloud with tears like a storm eyed he stared at you. "Whats so funny about my nose!? Huh!"

• "Well don't get angry- I don't mind. I think its cute. Im sorry if i offended you" You smile so sweetly, feeling bad for making his sad as Buggy felt his face start to glow.

• "You think.. My nose is cute?" He questioned, making you nod honestly. He giggled into his hands, a high pitch squeaky laugh that made you smile and your heart flutter.

• "Whats your name?" He grins at you, Hearing you actually want to know about him. "Buggy! What about you pretty girl?" Your face flushing at his words.

• "I'm-"

• "(Y/N)!" You heard your name being called before you could speak, recognizing the voice of your father.

• "(Y/N)- That's such a pretty name.. Will I see you again?" Buggy asked, his eyes sparking at such a chance. Your delicate hand reaching forward and tucking a strand of his blue hair back into his hat. "I will try"

• And try you did. For a year the two of you would meet, talking on the deck of the ship for hours till you had to sneak away again. Buggy even using his Chop Chop abilities to help you get back to your room.

• It was tragic to say, but you'd never get a chance to see Buggy for many many years after your 14th birthday- Your Father sending you to an Island to keep you safe as you entered your teens.

• The disbanding of the Roger Pirates aiding in this as well-

• The death and heartache Seeming to follow you as you found yourself handing in the hands of Sir Crocodile.

• Crocodile having had an interest to whoo you for years- as he too had met you on Gol D Roger's ship, finding you the only person more then suitable to be at his side.

• You had never truly accepted his advances, Despite his power, status and more. He didn't have your heart, and you wouldn't give him any part of yourself in compensation.

• Decades it had been like this, still the girl wrapped in silver and gold. Hoarded like treasure for everyone to admire, however nothing more.

• But it seemed the tides were beginning to change- After Crocodile time in Impel Down- as well as the formation of the Cross Guild- You would meet your blue haired friend once again. Just in a unique Flashy way

• AKA by his head being punched off by Crocodile and accidently flung into your waiting chest.

• "(Y/N)?-" He mumbled against your bust, your cheeks flaring deep crimson as he floated his head up to lock eyes with your flushed face.

• He got his ass beaten for that by Crocodile of course-

• But for you it was like your heart was Kickstart again!

• At the Cross Guild, you'd always attend. Crocodile assuming it was because you were warming up to him, But in truth it was to see Buggy-

• The two of you talking to each other constantly. He was so fascinating to you-

• Like you two were children again falling in love- Sitting out under the stars talking for hours. You tucking strands of his blue hair back into his hat, him fixing any Imperfections on yohr dresses as you sat next to him. Which often lead to Buggy giggling into his gloved hands while turning away from you

• You accepted him as he was, and adored him for it. You loved his mind, his passion, even his laziness and lewd humor.

• As time went on, you noticed the same for him. How he would ask you YOUR interest, what things YOU actually liked.

• Something no one had asked you since you were a child. Most just assuming your taste and interest.

• Hell when he came for meetings he would bring you something you'd actually want. Not just shiny things to make you look more valuable.

• "Hey (Y/N)!" Buggy cloaked towards you excited as he held out a old dirty crate to you. "I remeber you said you really liked weird plants, so I found these old books and scientist-y samples of the weirdest! Hope you like them!"

• You'd almost cried at the gift, so overfill with you you hugged Buggy. Before spending hours going through the crate and organizing it all to your liking.

• However with the sweets, came the sours...

• There had been countless times you'd walk into the Guild and see Buggys face. Beaten and bruised- How Crocodile and Mihawk kicked his ass as their own personal stress relief or just to show dominace.

• It broke your heart.. truly- Buggy humiliated like that infront of everyone time and time again... You would try to comfort him after the meetings but he would just run away- You swore you saw tears in his eyes a few times.

• You'd want to many times to have him run into your arms, so you could whisper how good of a man he is and deserving so love.

- It had been a particularly festive day in the Guild Hall, Crocodile dressing in a nicer suit as better food was served and fancy alcohol was served. You even being gifted a dress by the Desert King himself to wear today, you didn't refuse but felt rather uncomforble at how attentive he was acting with you.

And uncomfortable that he had purposely sat Buggy so far away from you..

As dinner was being served, Crocodile stood up from his seat next to you. Slapping his hand on the table to gather everyone's attention.

"I have an announcement-" Crocodile voice boomed through the room, you glancing up as the hook handed man gestured for you to stand. Which you silently did-

Oh No...

"(Y/N)- Daughter of Silvers Rayleigh. A women of greatness and deserving of only the finest of riches"

No...

"I ask for your hand- I swear I will give you all the wealth you desire"

Please No...

"From Riches, Silks and even the One Piece if your little mind wishes for it"

NO!

"Will you Marry me?"

Something inside you just snapped. Staring at Crocodile face that had the crooked cigar hanging from his lips.

Crocodile taking your silence positively as he handed you a velvet box with a massive diamond ring inside of it.

You stared at the ring box that had been placed in your glove hands and felt... nothing. Absolutely nothing...

Before A fire of rage filled your insides-

"We- We aren't even dating!-" You shouted, everyone looking to yoh in shock as you looked around wildly.

"What makes you think I want to stay by your side!? You were just ment to protect me not use me as a Scudo Girlfriend! I'm not yours nor will I ever be!-" Crocodile face starting to turn red, his eyes glancing around him before setting on you with a harsh glare.

"So I-I can't accept this" You finally hissed out, bright red in the face from both embarrassment and anger. Everyone in the Guild Hall staring at you in total shock.

"Besides My Heart... Belongs to someone else-" Crocodile eyes widen as he clenched his hands in rage. You handing the ring box back to him delicately, before turning to look at Buggy who had been picking his nose diassociating heavily at the dramatics. Only coming back to reality when he saw everyone was staring at him-

Buggy stares confused, 'Why are you all looking at me?' He looked behind himself first, Then around to see who you could be talking about, that had your heart. Realizing quickly he was alone and you actually ment HIM!

"Wait Me!?"

• After such a stunning yet shocking reveal, Crocodile cut you lose. Feeling you embarrassed him infront of everyone- Which had been the greatest day of your life!

• As you fly into Buggy's (Who got beaten senseless once again) arms. Who accepts you happily into his life-

• Frolicking away to his Circus Themed Ship in what can only be described as total Joy!

• "HAHAHAHAHA I WIN!!" He yells out, holding you in his arms as he flips off Crocodile once more and holds you in his arms.

• You adore his Flashy Crusty ways, the way he weirdly cackled and utter lack of emotional control.

• Oh How you love your Crusty Clown!

#x reader #one piece #one peice x reader #one peice live action #buggy one piece #buggy the clown x reader #buggy x reader #captain buggy #x female reader #the grinch #one piece buggy #op buggy #buggy #buggy x wife reader

[chronicowboy]

NO NO NO A CHOPPILY CUT TOGETHER MONTAGE WHERE IT'S BOTH BUCK AND EDDIE RAMBLING TO THEIR RESPECTIVE GIRLFRIENDS ABOUT THE CHRIS DILEMMA (tm) AND BOTH NATALIA AND MARISOL THINK THIS IS A FIGHT BETWEEN FATHER AND SON SO NATALIA IS SAYING "you're a good friend for worrying so much" AND MARISOL IS SAYING "i wouldn't worry too much eddie you're a great father i'm sure he'll forgive you soon" AND IT'S BUCK SAYING "no no he's mad at me" AND IT'S EDDIE GOING "no he's mad at buck" AND IT'S NATALIA AND MARISOL PROCESSING WHAT CLUSTERFUCK THEY'VE INTEGRATED THEMSELVES INTO AND IT'S NAT SAYING "sorry it just sounded like a fight i had with my dad all the time as a kid" AND IT'S MARISOL GOING "but that's a fight you have with your dad as a kid right?" AND IT'S BUCK GOING "huh. anyway. how did you and your dad make up?" AND IT'S EDDIE GOING "yeah that is a fight you'd have with your dad ?? that's literally what's happening" AND IT'S SEVERAL REALISATIONS STACKED ON TOP OF EACH OTHER

#sami rambles #i am. going insane. #i want a MONTAGE #911 spoilers #911 show #buddie #buck x eddie #buckley diaz family

[morallyinept]

Su Favorita - A Javier Peña One Shot

Summary: You're the only hooker in Bogotá that Javier Peña seeks after a clusterfuck of a day at work trying - and failing - to capture a lead that will steer him to the successful arrest of Escobar. 

Pairing: Javier Peña x F!Reader (No name or physical description of reader. It’s you, bub.)

Word Count: 4.8k

Scoville Smut Rating:🌶️🌶️🌶️ “You tell me I’m doing well, and then, you try to kill me.” 

Check out my Scoville Smut Ratings here.

Triggers/Warnings: Unprotected PIV (wrap up, folks!)/fingering/rough/swearing/mild dirty talk/mention of a gun/Javi gets a little rough and pulls you about - you want it.

NSFW. MINORS DNI! OVER 18’s ONLY. YOU ARE SOLELY RESPONSIBLE FOR WHAT YOU READ. ☝🏻Don’t come at me; you’ve been plenty warned.  

I write for me, and I share with you. If this story isn't to your taste, that's fine. Just slip quietly out the back door. No need to make a fuss. It's just a work of fiction.

Author’s Note: Javi's infamous pink shirt inspired this filth and I'm not sorry.

Enjoy! 🖤

MASTERLIST | JAVIER PEÑA MASTERLIST

His breath is a raw nettle in the back of his oesophagus. Rich tricolours that flap in the breeze are muted into a blur as he spins on his heels, blood thudding in his ears.

He's scanning the panicked faces that orb him as he lowers his Beretta to the ground, aware of the frantic calamity he’s now caused.

Fuck!

He fucking lost him; dropped the ball when he stumbled, and the maldito bastardo got away.

Javier scans the mass of wary bodies surrounding him, two-stepping about with hysterical caution as he loses his composure. Spanish expletives churn from his snarled teeth, offending those closest in ear shot.

Hijo de puta! (Motherfucker!)

The air was heavy with tension, and the sweltering heat seemed to conspire against him, slowing his pursuit. But Peña had pressed on, ignoring the discomfort in his twisted ankle from the fall, as he navigated through the disrupted masses; his eyes never leaving his target.

The locals, aware of the DEA’s reputation, festering in their provinces like cockroaches, hastily moved out of the way; fear flickering in their eyes as he gave chase to the assailant with his firearm brandished like it was his cock.

But it was fruitless as the pain was too much; he'd slowed his pace and he lost the scumbag out of his clutches.

And now he's here, floundering in the public square. 

Fuck! FUCK!

The pink shirt is soaked through with sweat; a large, cerise patch on his back sticking to him like a disgusting second skin he can’t peel off. The sun is merciless and running across half of Bogotá under it probably isn’t wise. He’s saturated everywhere, serving only to vexate him further.

The pungent smell of exhaust mixed with the spicy aroma of street food, creating an atmosphere of chaotic intensity, drowns him in the cesspool of sweat that is gluey.

He wipes at his face, tasting salt on his lips and feeling it bead in his eyelashes and moustache alike. 

His colleague approaches, mirroring the look of yet another sorry defeat back at him. Javier pats his shoulder anyway; the kid did well. Even if they’re pushed ten steps back again. 

A large palm placed on his gut where a stitch takes root, he catches his breath. His lower back aching solidly in places from the stumble down the concrete step he took while he bounded like a rottweiler unleashed after the only solid lead they’d gotten in a while.

He knows he’s getting too old for this cat and mouse shit out on the field; not as fit as he used to be to give lengthy chases after slimy muchachos (boys) half his age, but the son of a bitch is as stubborn as Escobar himself.

Despite the aches, the purple bruising petals that’ll unfurl on his tan skin later, he’ll carry on. He has to; an unspoken oath that he won’t rest until Pablo is rotting behind bars.  

Javier almost had him, almost.

He squeezes the chrome, pearl polished gun in his fist, trying to crush it, before tucking it away against his back in his denim waistband and out of sight to calm the vox-populi that have gathered to witness yet another mid-afternoon commotion on their turf between the Narcos and the DEA.

A war raging on that seems as unrelenting as the thick summer climate swamping over the country. 

His shirt - the half not crammed into the front of his tightly fitting jeans - flaps around sending a welcome breeze up onto his torso, even if it is warm. He scans the roads once more in all directions as his team gather; looking for faces that are taunting him, but they’re long gone. And Javier’s done.

Another fuck leaves his lips.

The drive back gives him a chance to reflect on where it all went downhill. His eyes are shielded by yellow aviators as he squints through glare of the harsh Colombian sun from the bonnet bouncing back into his face as he rides shotgun in the armoured cruiser with his tail between his legs.

His team spar verbally around him about tactics, dissect missed opportunities and Javier doesn’t want to hear anymore bickering about who missed their shot.

They all fucking did. 

The pressure is wrought hard on his shoulders; the flimsy explanations he’ll have to peddle, and the extra chances he'll have to persuade his seniors to give him, even though he knows they are sparse as they are costly these days. The hierarchy at the DEA are going to be pissed at him.

It’s times like these when he misses having Murphy around for some allyship. 

Sinking tequila’s later at the bar doesn’t help his mood much either. The buzz fails to cut into his nagging headache as he rubs his temples listlessly. He’s slumped forward on the bar top, his third cigarette on the go rolling between his fingers, whilst he mulls over his next move. 

The humidity is thick even at this late hour, and Javier’s too wired to process any more coherent thoughts or contemplate the futility of sleep.

So he goes to the only place he knows he can to blow off some much needed steam. 

He tosses a few crumpled bills, moist with sweat, on the bar top and slinks out the door into the opaque heat of the Colombian night. 

You’re in your silk nightie when he knocks on your door at an ungodly hour. The black one, with the slit and the lace band that curves around your tits as if it’s tattooed to your ample curves perfectly.

His mouth waters instantly when he sees you.

Javier’s sculpted arm rests up on the frame casually; he looks shattered, defeated and yet coy all at the same time in that way that only he can.

Tortured brown eyes lance at you that make you melt into a puddle at his feet instantly. You can smell the liquor on his breath even at arm's length. 

“Did I wake you, hermosa?” He asks with a softness to his usually clipped tone.

His eyes are forlorn around the edges where lines are taking up root in the thin skin ageing him quicker there. You liquefy when you see him standing there brazenly.

You shake your head, feeling the heated tension he always brings with him on your body already. Javier Peña could always wake you in the middle of the night and you would never mind at all. 

It hasn't been long since the last time; Javier’s musk is only just starting to fade from your sheets and body alike. You can still smell him in your hair, taste him in your sweat.

And now he’s back to pollute more of you with him. 

You step forward, reaching your hands out; your svelte fingers running around his damp, pink collar flapping open and revealing golden collarbone ridges that you long to conquer and lick.

You pull him inside on unsteady feet as he throws the door shut behind him, leaving the shitty day postulating outside. 

He rids his body of obtrusive objects; his crumpled box of cigarettes, his gun; the aviators hanging from his shirt opening, and dumps them clumsily on the table you both pass as you pelt his salty neck with hungry smooches.

You plant needy whines that bloom pink carnations out of his pores into your face and you inhale their fragrant perfume. You mewl longingly as you suck onto his skin, leaving a red mark here or there with your teeth and Javier's hiss tells you he needs more of that carnality. More of you.

But he needs to be in control.

So he takes it. 

Your back hits the wall winding you; arms are stretched above your head as he pins you and feels down your supple body. His free hand groping with intent over your breasts, sampling the fullness of them and pinching around your hips and thighs as he grunts.

He leans in and slips his acrid tongue into your mouth; his grip becomes tighter on you, desperate. 

His eyes are hungry, ravenous and almost black. His fingers skim the hem of your nightie and slip underneath, feeling out your folds that are absolutely dripping for him.

His thick fingers slip across your clit, swollen and bruising as your knees buckle when he slides back and forth over it. You gasp and shudder, whining in your intensity for him as the tingles ramp up your desire. 

“Fuck, baby. You’re soaked for me.” Javier groans into your neck approvingly. "You know what that does to me."

He needs this. Needs this wet pussy so fucking badly.

He slips a finger up inside you, marvelling as you flutter and squeeze around him, before he adds another. The sounds of your wetness as he slides in and out are explicitly pornographic, filling his ears with heady, filthy bubbles.

You gasp again, your hands dropping to his shoulders. You hitch up your leg around his waist, pulling him in so he can delve deeper into that wet velvet between your legs.

He smirks under his 'tache as he curls his fingers, massaging against that spongy spot deep in you that makes your thighs shake and your eyes roll back into your skull like clacking marbles. 

As much as he enjoys pulling you apart - and often does for hours - he wants this, fucking needs you.

Now!

Growling, Javier lifts you up carrying you to the bedroom, throwing you down on the bed and making you squeal in delight. You look up at him through your now unkempt hair and your whole body soars at his strength, his abrupt roughness with you - his primal desperation.  

Your slick, smeared across your inner thighs, shines up at him as you lart your legs, and he emits a low growl in approval.

"Show me, baby." He encourages as you touch yourself.

The moment you opened the door and you caught the familiar, heady scents of him; worn leather and cigarettes, the flash of those cocoa eyes deep rooting inside of you, your slit began to stick together between your legs and you needed him to tear it open again.

Your cunt remembers the shape of him, and you clench in anticipation of having him inside you once more. Re-bruising those fleshy, battered walls that have barely stopped aching.

You groan as your fingers circle your clit and your thighs shake.

Javier loves the way you’re always humming before he’s even touched you. The way you lust for him with dilated eyes like you're high on the white stuff that the brazen Narcos smuggle out the country, and swollen lips that you lick and nibble on.

He loves the flush that births over your cheeks and neck. Watching you cupping your own breasts over the silk as you watch him watch you for a moment.

He savours it, just for a few seconds, before he ruins you. Appreciating the sight of the beautiful woman who craves his touch; who howls at the moon for his dick. 

He kneels up over you after unbuttoning his shirt, and sinks his tongue into your waiting hot mouth, jaw bones and teeth clashing in their sloppiness. Javier’s kiss is biting, his warmth searing; his own lust unbridled. 

He manhandles you, tearing at the silk and lace that barely covers your tits and ass. His lips latch onto a freed nipple, teeth scraping against in his furore. You hiss as he tugs at the teet with a voracious growl around his gums. 

You whine at the dull pinch, and brown doe-eyes glance up at you lessening the pressure as it slips out of his wet mouth. 

“Can you take it hard tonight, cariño? For me?” Javier husks, you feel his grip around your waist bruise into your skin with need.

A silent, but yielding plea circles his mocha irises. An unspoken hypnotism that you’ve recognised only a handful of times in him, but know it well enough to trust him with it.

He’ll make it hurt mami, but in a way that’ll leave you craving more. The yellowing bruises on your thighs where he grips, the teeth marks in your skin where he feasts; that heavy ache in your cervix for days as he owns you.

The deep chocolate of his eyes are dissipating into jet black. His breaths become quick, painting frantic annihilation with his touch.

You run your fingers through his oil slick hair, a gentle tug and nod with a hot smile at your lover giving him free rein. "Si, Javi. Si. Give it all to me." You confirm.

"Buena niña,” (Good girl) he rasps at you through teeth that grit. You understand what Javier needs so well, and he needs to consume you right now until there is nothing left of him, or you. 

So you let him. 

The chink of his belt buckle ricochets through you, crackling as you remove the tattered threads of your nightie, wanting his burning skin crushed and melting against yours until you become one gloopy mess together staining the sheets with your wax. 

He yanks you forward by the ankles, sliding you down the bed towards the foot of it where he stands naked; his cock thick and heavy, pointing out at you with a flush scarlet head that oozes delicious pearls from its tip. 

He parts your thighs and teases your folds with his fingers, stroking up and down your slit.

“Fucking gorgeous, querida…” Two of Javier’s fingers fill you up again, stretching you open as he widens them inside your sopping hole. 

“Mmm,” you breathe, head tossed back as he curls them inside you, beckoning your soul to depart your vessel so it doesn’t have to witness this desperate violation of it. 

Javier slides them out, sucks them clean of your slick and taps your hip to get you to turn.

“Bend over,” he instructs as you spread yourself on all fours on the end of the bed. Ass up and legs wide, just how he likes you. 

He spits onto your pussy, running his fingers through your drippings and mixing it with his saliva. Your body soars at the notion - it’s utterly lewd and filthy.

“So fucking wet for me, hermosa,” he grunts, marvelling at the spit shine. "Jesus..."

He leans forward, pulls open the globes of your ass cheeks tightly in his hands admiring the view of you splayed all for him.

Javier takes his solid, pulsing cock, lines it up and taps it against your cunt; dipping the tip of his head into your greased folds and coating himself with you. 

“Javi,” you mutter encouragingly, your body so desperate for him; your pussy contracting and squeezing to suck more of him into you as he teases you.

Teases himself; allows a beat or two to pass before the chaos descends.

Tres, dos, uno- (3,2,1-)

He plunges in, ramming his cock into your tight crevice and filling you as he shunts in and bottoms oit with force. You shriek out deliciously at the sudden thick intrusion. 

He stretches you wide, packs you out and you grip around him welcoming him into your wet flesh. 

His large hands are still on your ass cheeks, pulling you open so he can watch his cock slide up inside you to the hilt and your ass pucker at him, blowing sweet kisses.

Fuck, you take him so well.

Javier pulls back slowly; his dick so shiny and soaked in you, and rolls into you in a smooth thrust. He repeats it once, twice more before the need to start pummelling you takes over like a red mist that he can’t see through.

God, you feel so tight around him. You’re nuzzling into the covers as he fucks you deeply, losing yourself into a tumbling spiral of covetness for his cock. He’s so hard, so thick and rails you to within an inch of your life.

"Oh, fuck!" You whine as he picks up a brutal, punishing pace.

He fucks the breath out of you and all of your senses out of your mind into jumbled piles beside you in the sheets.

His large hands steady you; pulling on your hips, anchoring you back into meeting his every shunt into your squelchy tunnel that squeezes around him ruthlessly.

You spasm, detached from any control over your limbs and begin to see pink phosphenes glitter behind your eyelids. 

“Like that, baby,” you groan wantonly as Javier pulls you back against him, again and again and again.

And again.

He’s so deep you’ll be feeling it for a week. His fingers scrape through your hair, gathering it into his palm and knotting around his fingers as his cock slides further in and your head is yanked backward by your roots. 

“Mmm!” You cry out, feeling him bottom out continuously and fill you wholly.

You squirm and squeal, you judder and buck, but he keeps you grounded. Keeps you right there taking all of him brutally in a shape that would baffle any Yoga instructor as your torso is pulled upwards and backwards by your hair, as far as your spine will allow. 

It feels amazing, giddy. You feel a gentle nudging against the precipice of pain deep within your core. You feel hot, drenched. Weak.

You're tumbling, falling deeper into a black pit of oily pleasure that coats your skin. 

Javier takes your arm and folds it back across your lower spine pinning it there. He does the same with the other and your face topples into the mattress tasting cotton on your tongue as he burrows deeper, splits you open.

He’s everywhere, consuming and taking. His grunts are grazing inside your ears, his sweat is dripping onto your skin, sizzling it. His cock is punching out your insides with every snap of his hips. 

You screech as he speeds up; the constant cresting of his hip bones against you at a banging tempo as your screams start to pierce; you beg him for more.

"Más duro, Javi!” (Harder) You pant wildly. 

You want him to rip right through you and out of your chest walls with his cock. 

Your body is burning up; a fire licking at the insides of your belly acids ready to ignite them, heat surging across your skin.

You can feel it behind your eyes, in the tips of your toes, on the back of your tongue as the building of your orgasm courses through your nerve endings. 

Javier all but growls at you as his breath puffs out of his chest on each, thrusting syllable.

"You wanna come, hmm? Can feel you squeezing me, baby."

He taunts. He knows you're close to utter destruction; he can feel how tightly and regularly your pussy is squeezing around him now. He’s making you sing and he’s greedy for the hoarse treble clefs you pelt into the air around him. 

Your ass slaps back onto his thighs as he wrenches you back each time; your slick dripping down your own now, and pins and needles fizzing in your fingertips behind your back as they numb out with how he’s got you twisted.

He fucks harder. Intense. Gruelling. Unwavering thrusts fill your pussy to breaking point as he lets all of the day's failings - his failings - out of his system and forces them into you.

He gives you all he's got. And it's too much and still not enough. 

“Oh, fuck! Please, Javi!” You beg, your voice slack and thick. You can only take it; let him use your hole for his own gratification and release.

You feel a harsh sting on your ass as he slaps it - hard. 

You bawl out; a low pitched groan that warbles around the hot room, your hair sticking to your face. Your thighs shake and give way as you fall fully flat, and Javier’s hands press down onto your lower spine keeping you still as he fucks hard and deep and doesn’t stop.

The metal railings of the bed squeak relentlessly and hammer against the wall. 

“Taking my cock so well, bonita.” He pants from behind you in a voice that has been stripped away from the Javi you know.

He crushes you with his chest, his hand snaking up your throat gently as the heavy grunts inside your ear fill your head with dizzy helium that makes you float.

His thumb tip slips into your mouth as you suck on it - dribbling around it with clumsy teeth - his fingers crushing around your chin and jaw.

And you want him to snap you in half if that's what it takes. 

He’s feral in owning you, claiming you with his cock.

His favourite, eres su favorita. (You're his favourite.) You’ve not entertained other clients, stopping all services since Javier first got his dick wet inside of you. He came back for more and more. 

The length between visits is getting shorter, the time spent with his face between your legs getting longer. The money exchanged between you ceasing with mutual consent, because it’s more than just a cheap fuck now between you. DEA Agent Javier Peña craves you. Needs you when the crushing weight of the world starts to suffocate him.

Gets his sight back in colour when he takes root up in your pussy. 

He’s the only one you’ve ever let stay the night; the only body who sleeps in your bed wrapped around you like a baby capuchin clinging onto its mother.

His limbs glued to yours in the sweltering heat after he's covered you in his pearly fluids; marked his territory, a seminal signature upon your body parts and heart alike. 

Javier feels the tightness around him squeeze harder. Your pussy strangling him, milking him for all he’s got as your orgasm blasts into you like a solar flare. 

“That’s it, baby. Come on my cock,” Javier coos, his hips working harder as he fucks you through it. "Soak it, querida."

God, he fucking needs it. 

You’re weightless; your bones melt into molten lava and you blaze up from the inside out, disintegrating into ashen dust under him as you erupt. 

“Jaaaavi!” You wail, your body rattling; you’re muttering incoherently into the sheets as though possessed by a thrashing spirit. 

“Where?” He growls, holding on by a thread. “Where, querida?!” He hastens.

“Inside me, mi amor.” (My love) You instruct, out of breath, completely wrecked and spent.  

He chases it, holding out as long as he can before he spills himself inside of you with thick squirts, and heavy howls; coating your walls in that plentiful spend he loves watching drip out of you afterwards whilst he pushes it back in with his fingers. Stroking your clit gently as your thighs twitch from the overstimulation.

But he’ll keep doing it; building you up again until you can take him once more when he’s hard and ready to destroy you all over. 

He grunts loudly, chest puffing as he releases and slows his pace into a laboured shunt, your skin tight in his grip as he comes down.

Soft, satiated moans spilling from his lips and making patterns on your back as they settle in. 

His head clears, the tension untangled from his shoulder muscles, the ache in his back seems non-exisitent for a few moments, and his hands massage your ass cheeks affectionately as he slides out leaving a spill of him to follow. 

Javier takes everything from you that you have to give again before he's fully satiated; the deep night shifting into a pastel dawn, until you both collapse in the crumpled sheets of mutual sweat and come.

Tangled up in his caramel limbs and lost in a fever dream of his raw, savage sex.

Small snuffles of warm, stale breath coat your back.

Javier is dead to the world and snoring lightly from his nose; the exhaustion and over-exertion of the previous day - and night - finally kicking his pert ass into a smashed sleep.

In the late morning, the glow of the Colombian sun flirting behind the curtains coats his face in gold shadows that dance.

When you stir awake, he's already regarding you; those dark coffee eyes a lighter shade of hazel in the light.

He runs a lone, thick finger that carries the scent of you in the whorl of his fingerprint down your arm and onto your hip. It leaves goose pimples in its wake and destroys your peace. 

Your nipple wakes up on the breast that isn't crushed under your body weight and he strokes his thumb over it delicately, rousing you. You shudder and smile sleepily under the mess of your hair. 

“You good, cariño?” Javier’s voice is muted, heavy with sleep and some small hesitation is lingering there in the roots of his moustache.

He knows he was rough on you, maybe a little too rough at times. Knows he used your body for his own release, his cock a battering ram into your precious pussy. Even though you came - he’ll always make sure you do before he does - he was justifiably selfish in his needs in getting off this time.

But you don’t mind. You’ll take him however he comes to you when he needs you.

This morning he’s going to make it up to you as you nod at him, smiling like you’re drunk cupping his face, stroking your thumb across his cheekbone and feeling the graze of a shadow of sharp hairs surfacing. 

Javier kisses you deeply, licks into your mouth and rolls himself on top of you. He peppers kisses down your jaw affectionately, suckles gently on your chin through sleepy smiles, and nips your throat with contented sighs that inflate you.

He runs his jaw across yours affectionately, nips gently on your ear lobe and plants more, delicate kisses over the vicinity of your face.

The weight on his shoulders seems lighter now, almost gone. The prospect of a clearer head and an optimistic approach in his next move in capturing Escobar seems less daunting, more attainable somehow.

And he knows it's because of you.

“Javi, baby,” you moan as you feel his hardness pressing into your inner thigh meat. His wetness smears over it and glistens in the sunlight.

His touch is more delicate now, more precise and concentrated. 

More Javier.

“Querida,” Javier shushes as he plants a trail of kisses across your collarbone, mouthing around your nipples gently with a warm, wet tongue and soothing the sting of his previous bites.

He feeds you bliss, calm. He feeds you the tender pieces of him that no-one has ever tasted before.

A ragged cry unfurls at the back of your throat as he slips back inside you, this time taking his sweet time in filling you and making you feel every veined inch of him.

Gasping at how good he feels, your hands claw at his back; you bury your face in the crook of his neck inhaling his fresh musk of sweat, smoky cigarettes and the lingering spices of his aftershave in faint notes, as he drowns you with him and pulls you under. 

Javier’s hips rock back and forth, moving deeper with every deliberate glide. His pubic bone caresses your clit deliciously as he grinds in and out. You’re biting into the tan skin of his shoulder as your dreamy orgasm stirs from the slumbering pits of your core. 

“Come for me, baby,” he rouses in your ear in a thick whisper drenched in his own pleasure growing again, as feeling you squeeze and pulsate around his cock makes him weak.

He kisses gently all over the skin of your cheek; delicately peppering little smooches. Running his fuzzy lips against your skin.

You kiss him back, tasting his tongue and sucking it gently.

“Mierda,” (Shit) he grunts as he feels your fingers entwine with his and squeeze tightly.

He squeezes back. He always squeezes back.

“Javi, don’t stop…” You whimper with a mouth full of his skin, and he draws back to watch you come undone. Watch you lose your shit on the end of him once more and it's a sight that makes everything else pale into insignificance.

You shine brighter than the sun blinding him.

There’s a reason why he favoured you over all the whores he’s ever found solace in; this right here.

That resplendent look glazed over your watery eyes as you come completely undone around him; crying for him and begging him for more of his cock.

For more of him. 

Your cheeks are red matching the heat on your lips, your eyes punch drunk on lust and the glitter that only you can see fills the room once more and suffocates all of your orifices with its metallic dust.

You come again, hard. It's intense. Different to how it was last night.

The tightening bunch in your gut snapping back like a band, and flooding out of you; soaking his cock which he so desperately wants and needs. 

It’s enough to make Javier lose it again too. He pants and groans as he empties out inside of you, collapsing onto your chest and grunting as he catches his breath.

Your hands soothe his back and you stay like that for a while feeling his warmth leak out of you whilst he softens. 

You kiss into hairline as he kisses over the same patch of skin on your stomach, as he stays there for a while and contemplates never moving from that spot ever again.

You watch, a while later, as he tucks his gun into the back of his waistband and grabs his cigarettes from the table in the hall. His yellow aviators find their home on his face and he smiles at you.

And this is the part that always cuts through the pleasure you’ve been drowning in. 

Javier turns to kiss you, his hands squeezing your body; moulding it into his as he leaves a cast of you in his flesh, an indent where you'll always fit. 

The scent of his stale, sweat laden, pink shirt seeps into your nose and you taste salt on each other’s lips that'll stay on yours long after he leaves. You’ll lick it off, continuing to taste him; ingesting him fully.

Each parting kiss feels heavier, longer somehow, and you sense some reluctance in him this time - forever hopeful.

But you know it won’t be long again before he’s back. 

Afterall, you’re Javier Peña’s absolute favourite. 

I hope you enjoyed reading this Javier Peña story of mine. If you enjoyed it, please consider re-blogging so others can find it on their dash. Thank you. 🖤

MASTERLIST| JAVIER PEÑA MASTERLIST

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #javier peña smut #javi peña #javi pena #javier peña narcos #javier peña #javi pena x reader #javi peña x reader #javier peña x reader #javier peña x female reader #javier peña fanfiction #javier peña fic #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal narcos #javier pena narcos #narcos fanfiction #narcos #javi p #javi p x reader #jett's writing #jett's pedro boys