City Boy Nightwing Art By Jamal Campbell

city boy Nightwing art by Jamal Campbell

candles

gn!reader, jason's pov, kind of introspective ?? not so much a fluff fic as it is a stream of consciousness (is that even the right phrase?)

the smell of candle wax reaches his nose, burning, acrid. the flame burns bright spots into his vision, bleeding gaps of yellow and orange that glimmer in the dark when he blinks. jason todd, a year older, unsure as to how much wiser, sits at a table in front of a birthday cake and wonders how he got here.

he thinks about your hands. about the curve of your palms, fingers folding over the plate as you'd carried the dessert. your smile, shaky, unbidden love in the corners of your mouth. adoration had pressed into his shoulders, warmth bleeding from your touch.

make a wish, baby.

it used to be that when he was younger – another lifetime ago entirely, before the fire, before ethiopia, before bruce – he'd play this game. to count all that he longed for. money, mostly. money, money, money. at the centre of it all, green dollar bills. what couldn't you do if you had it? money, so he and mom didn't have to go without, money, so he could take care of her.

he looks up at you, milky eyed, feels the scar on his cheek jump as the muscle twitches.

sweeter than sin, honey soaked, you smile. head tilting, liquid moonlight bottled in your eyes. a wish, he thinks. old aches, a new body, the grief of estrangement, all briefly forgotten – he stares at you, and thinks. a wish.

time passes strangely after the pit. murky, sluggish. it could have been an eternity that he spends, tracing your features in the candlelight, light bleached spots in his vision flickering over your face like burnt film. each breath feels distant to him, air passing faintly through his lungs.

a wish, a wish, a wish.

it seems a foolish thought. all that he so desperately desires, he cannot have. money, he has plenty, but it is worthless in the face of his longing, hard as it is to conceive. what he wants cannot be bought.

he blinks, lids heavy, lashes brushing against his skin. that all familiar buzz in his head, again, the one that threatens to unstitch him inside out, cleave him in half.

– your hands. warm, soft heat, bleeding through the fabric of his shirt.

all is quiet, once more. he moves, stiff limbs breaking an invisible cast to loop around your waist. the weight of you atop his thigh, the startled sound you try to muffle, it lends him a bit of strength. the edges of him feel more solid, and he heaves a breath. a quiet exorcism, an expulsion of the remaining traces of ichor in his lungs.

he blows out the candles.

dunno what this is. thoughts about jason and his birthday, thoughts about love, thoughts about resurrection and rebirth – forced from eternal slumber, the choice to live.

happy birthday jason todd, i love you so dearly.

oooh so did we divorce Bruce, or is this an infidelity type of situation?

a loving family, an unpalatable desire: first meeting (unofficial)

— related post !

a/n: a tad bit nsfw. if this sounds messy, spare me. i'm running on like 4 hours of sleep and the will of a thirsty man in front of an oasis. i told yall im going insane for this plotline. ofc a&a still has my heart but I also love to occasionally write for smth else in the sidelines. send in more asks yall hehe.

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

definitely an infidelity type of situation, anon! you see, the affair was caused by all mere coincidence. you were to attend with bruce in one of lex luthor's extravagant show of a gala, hold his arm for a brief moment when you walk out of the limousine, only to be abandoned right in the middle of the enormous room.

of course, the right reaction was to be pissed, to badmouth the very man who decided to court and entertain others in front of you; but you chose to stay silent, biting back choked tears by stumbling over the buffet table, only to be met with stupid, overbearing paparazzi and journalists.

so when clark kent rushes in to save you from stuttering over the dozens of microphones and cameras shoved right in your face, granting them access to your pathetic sobs— it's only right that your first reaction was to lean against his body, dismissing the hushed, harsh gossips of journalists.

it was at a time where you're not aware of his identity of superman. well, bruce barely permits you to enter the batcave, only if you stubbornly pester alfred does he let you, only to kick you, his darling spouse right out the moment you step on the cold, hard floors of the lair.

so it's not... a bad thing, right? your husband had a child with another woman, raised him as his own, didn't even bother to notify you with his infidelity— so is it your fault if you slowly start to fall for a man who promises you the world? who actually has the ability to give you the world in the palm of your hands? whose kid lets you pamper him without any fight?

sure, he's coping with... the loss of his previous wife but you're such a perfect spouse, so undeniably attractive, captivating in the hearts of many. your distant eyes, the way you bite the inside of your cheeks, the way your body sways back and forth as if begging for someone, your husband, to provide you a pillar of support in the suffocating heat of paparazzi.

he could be that pillar, could be your support.

when he first came up to you, his intentions weren't to obtain gossip about the oh-so silent spouse of bruce wayne. he didn't even want to acknowledge your marital status, palms already taking your wrist just so he could lead you off to somewhere quieter.

"it's an interview," he whispers an excuse to your reddened ears. but the buzz of his breath, the warmth, the caged arm on your waist tells you it's more than that.

but you don't fight back, you'd rather be anywhere than be the spotlight of a media that eats you up, makes you doubt your marriage even more.

so you're grateful that someone came to your rescue.

this would be the first time you ever saw someone as a savior, and it's not superman, no. it's clark kent, your resident, widowed, journalist.

and for clark's case, you warm his bed better than anything else. you allow clark this sense of respite, a break from heroic activities. allow him to be human, just as he allows you to play your fantasies of being a house spouse; you're perfect for each other.

to hell with useless marriage papers that don't even give bruce a sense of obligation to act as your husband, right? what can it do, when you're absolutely smitten with the current life you're living?

the first stages of your infidelity with clark is confusing, but very much welcomed into your already hectic life.

firstly, you convince yourself, it was all mere 'emotional cheating'. you began texting clark, he does too. an occasional greeting in messages, a passing congratulation for something, then the next it was good morning messages, 'have you eaten breakfast yet?, 'how'd the appointment go?'.

you don't know when it started, when your feelings started, when you began an intimate to romantic relationship with the man— all you knew was that the moment he revealed his superhero identity was the moment he decided to bed you for the night, the moment you grant the man, now your partner, access to every part of your depraved body, made him make you beg for more, giving him all the time in the world to kiss your imperfections, to fondle sensitive parts long untouched, to leave lovebites deeper and darker than the ones you caught bruce with.

you can't help it, he's unknowingly handsome, especially when he invites you over to his ma and pa's farm the next day, pretending to not notice the way your eyes hungrily flit over his topless body, sweat and budding pecs encased in a muscled form. over the course of dinner, you kept biting your lips, warm cheeks at the implications that clark merely wanted to sit next to you just so he could handfeed you, something about him being prideful that you'd definitely enjoy this week's harvest... but his fingers circling your thighs just seems to get you brain all haywired.

yet you stay, and continue visiting for long hours either way, enjoying the man's attention.

you know it's wrong, he knows it's wrong. but the way his son, jon looks at you like you mean the world, the way he's slowly starting to heal the longer you stay over at his place makes clark want to... what's the word? ah, he wants to turn you into his loving trophy spouse. all you need to do is provide jon with all the support in the world.

as for bruce... well, him and his family can deal with your absence for the first few months. but when the lingering feeling of emptiness becomes too much, when bruce no longer feels the worried gazes, or when dick can't hear anymore laughter in one of the supposed 'barren' rooms, or when tim's security systems tracked a missing device, one now in a completely different city.

that's when they start to yearn for someone they purposely let go

Birdflash (villain but not really villain) AU

(can’t really think of a name so this will be it for now)

But yeah, some sketches and concept art for a birdflash AU idea I had some time ago

and some of my thoughts on the au if interested:)

-talon dick finding abused Wally (after Wally run away from home)

-talon dick kind of adopting/kidnapping Wally and bringing him to his lair that he build when he wants to get away from the court

-Wally and dick grew up together (wally refusing to go back home)

-dick talon

-Wally (vigilante I guess not sure yet)

-talon dick can talk but the court didn’t think its necessary for him to learn how to write or read so Wally teaches him

Also, I swear I had some sketches for a comic somewhere, but I can’t find them anymore.

If I do though I’m gonna try finishing them …

I had a really bad migraine last night, but I've run out of everything except these hungarian pain killers my dad gave me 9 years ago, anyway I don't remember anything and I can't feel my tongue and the only thing in my search history is this

Jason Todd knows that he’s always been ravenous for love. Runs a tongue longingly over aching canines at the thought of more sweetness. He gets by on the scraps stolen from his family with sticky fingers. Greedy with it, he lines his pockets with filched moments of affection. Takes them out to examine when the hollow in his stomach grows particularly fierce to roll between his fingers and savour the weight of them under his tongue. It is a sickness, as much as his rage is.

Jason is a starved, needy thing, half feral with the hunger when you find him. Stumble across him really, bleeding out in a back alley. He is a cornered animal and so he does what any wounded, whimpering creature would do. Jason bites. But the fish hook cuts deeper than the fang and Jason is left to trail along in your wake. The scraps from your table fed lovingly by your hand are the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted. There’s no room for hunger, not when all of his worst dreams are coming true.

He’s got you between his teeth, sweet thing, hard candy shell cracking under his molars. Pretty thing, oozing out thick across his tongue like honey. Jason’s got the taste of you now, the scent of you burned into his memory. He’s gorged on your flesh, taken it into the very marrow of him. The hunger purrs in his belly now that he’s got you candy sweet between his jaws. Sugar water and treacle in his veins quelling the green rage that burns through him. One sickness replaced with another, sweet enough to be swallowed whole.