Legit Confused With How Battinson Would Hold Up With His Soon To Be Extended Family. In The Dc Comics

legit confused with how battinson would hold up with his soon to be extended family. in the dc comics we see his kids constantly clown on him cause they know he can take it. jason constantly waving his death certificate over bruce’s face? no biggie, he signed that himself. dick getting into an argument with him and calling him every scalding name in the book? bruce cursed like a sailor and probably taught him those. cass retreating into a blanket fort and refusing to speak with him? he’ll wait outside until she cools down to apologize.

but battinson? the man is one minor inconvenience away from a total breakdown all the time. his self esteem is in the dirt, he can’t look anyone in the eye, he doesn’t even know what he’s doing. so imagine his kids trying to assure him he’s doing a great job and him just curled up on the ground.

jason: b, it’s okay. sure i died but now i’m even beefier than you and the government won’t try to make me pay taxes :D

bruce: u have ptsd

jason: so does literally everyone else in this family

steph: wow u know i love your hair how is it holding its shape so well

bruce: i haven’t showered in 8 days

damian: father someone at the gala was looking at your behind and making lewd comments so i removed their eyes for you

bruce:

damian: because i care about you

dick: u know dami maybe some things are better left unsaid

damian: you are absolutely right grayson, how dare i voice my affection verbally. i’m getting soft. father, take these eyeballs and get out of my sight

Y do i love this so much

Princess | Finn Shelby

Ooh! Request for Finn Shelby’s wedding day? He’s marrying this totally girly posh girl and his family, particularly the boys, are totally baffled and think it’s a match made to fail. But Polly’s like nah, she’s a good oke for Finn. And maybe the girls dad makes a scene at the party and drunkenly says “oh you’re not good for my daughter” and she frickin grabs him and makes him leave all by herself? And the boys are lie “oh THATS why”

Princess | Finn Shelby

Finn stood at the front of the church, boutonnière in his lapel as he tried to calm his breathing. His hands felt clammy when he clenched his fists and he was sure that he was sweating. He tried to focus on something to distract him, his eyes wandering to the door of the chapel. Ruby kept peeking her head through the crack in the door and he watched as Charlie pulled the littlest Shelby back. Their antics didn’t work to unnerve Finn, instead it only reminded him that you were behind that door as well, waiting for the queue to walk down the aisle. 

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MORE talia and Damian ft. Matching outfits cus I LOVE THEM

PICTURES WITH EDDIE HIM COVERING YOUR BOOBS WITH HIS HANDS WITH HIS RINGS OMG AHHAHAHAHAHWKSUWJDJAJSHJKAHDKAWJND I NEED A ONESHOT OF THIS

it’ll last longer

A/N: oh my god & him totally leaving them in places he knows you’ll see just to get you flustered as f*ck 👹

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Fem!Bimbo!Reader

Summary: You show Eddie your new Polaroid camera, and he already has a few ideas. 1.4k words

Warnings: tibbies, boobies, bReasts, + hands on ‘em, being naked but nonpenetrative so it is technically smut, praise, taking nudes, hand kink, flustered and horny eddie, mention of drug use, mention of gun violence, everyone is over 18 here

Eddie had been royally pissed off a second ago. With the pounding on his door like goddamn thunder spiraling him right towards a raging headache. But then it swung open to your smiling face, your arms clasped behind your back, and he couldn’t bring himself to be annoyed anymore.

Not with the slight curve of your mouth and the soft squint of your eyes and your pink mini skirt peaking out beneath the hem of his leather jacket. Not with your cherry lipgloss laid on thick and the locket stuffed with his likeness jingling just above your cleavage reflecting the golden lamplight past his shoulder.

“Hey, bug, how’s my favorite conformist doing?” 

“She’s busy,” you say, suddenly pouty and sullen. But you can’t just wipe the remnants of that giddy look off your face or dim the stars in your eyes, so as bitter as you try to be, he knows you’re still beaming somewhere under there.

“Busy?”

“Snorting white in Milan with millionaire heartthrob: John, Jr.”

“How very metal of her,” he teases, dipping down and pressing a chaste kiss to your bottom lip. But you disappear past him into the depths of the hallway, and he finds you perched on his bed kicking your legs out in front of you.

A click, a whirr, and a blinding flash: he’s staggering backward, fluorescent yellow burned into his vision. He blinks the static away to see you wide-eyed down at a small, square picture edged with a thick white border.

“What the shit?”

Propping yourself up on your knees, you tuck a boxy, grey camera under your arm and offer him the little photo. On film, his big hands are outstretched and overexposed, his silver rings reduced to a couple black bands at the base of his fingers. The grainy lens caught him grimacing though his knuckles, lips pursed, eyes shut.

“When’d you get it?” Eddie nods to your sleek and shiny Polaroid camera that flicks back open when you slip your thumb across the back.

“It was sitting on the dash when daddy drove me home from the rink.”

“Well… I’m keeping this,” he says, mouth pressed in a line when you bounce up to glance at the blurry picture with a sweet giggle.

“I can take a better one for you,” you coo, but he grabs a fistful of the leather jacket draped over your shoulders, tugging you closer, and slipping it into the inner pocket.

“How ‘bout I take some of you, bug?”

“Me?

“Yeah, you,” he breathes, taking in a lungful of your sugary, jasmine-spritzed perfume that peppers your neck in sloppy kisses of springtime and pie-eating contests at greasy carnivals. You fill him with wistful nostalgia, prodding around in his heart and guts for the tenderest spots and prodding some more when you realize how supple they are between your teeth.

“Doing what?” you say with a shrug. And that look in his tired eyes is all-telling. It’s like he can see through your top, and doesn’t even bother with being subtle because you’re so perfect, the risk is nothing compared to the reward

“That’s rotten, Munson. Don’t be vulgar.”

“Why, ‘cause your daddy bought you that camera? What’s he gonna care that Hawkins’ resident freak is defiling his daughter on a Thursday night?”

“He’d also buy me a shotgun, if I asked.”

“Is that supposed to scare me, bug?”

“Big, too, ‘n I’d aim it right here”—your rounded, ballet-slipper-pink fingernail draws an ‘X’ over his sternum—“break your heart real easy.”

“Don’t need a shotgun for that,” he huffs, guiding your fist open against his waist, slotting his fingers beneath the weighty underbelly of your Polaroid camera, and pressing his plump lips to your brow to get you to transfer its weight to his palm.

He holds your chin between thumb and knuckle, even though you pout and fiddle with the chain hanging from his belt loops. He lifts the camera to eye-level, sputtering and snapping when he fingers for the bright red button, tapping it gently.

The flash rings in your ears, leaves behind a distorted blob of darkness when you look up. The camera spits out an onyx plain of undeveloped film before slowly flooding with splotches of bronzy green.

“Hello, Miss America,” he mumbles, wobbling the delicate picture back and forth in the air, and you shriek, wrapping both hands around his forearm.

“Fuck, Eddie!”

“Yes, ma’am—”

“No, the ink, baby, it’ll bubble,” you whine, pinching the picture and blowing softly along its face.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” he says when you turn away from him. He rests his chin on your shoulder, pecking just below your diamond-studded ear with a sigh. “You still look incredible.”

And you do. Like a model, as always, he thinks, but you’d make fun of him for dreaming where you won’t. He always tells you to remember him when you’re strutting through Manhattan, being clobbered by psychos with expensive cameras.

The photo’s abandoned atop his amp and the kisses are slow and sweet with your jacket draped over the edge of the bed and your fingers in his hair and his lips lazy and wet against yours. You taste biting and bubbly like cheap champagne, royal and bold under his tongue.

He picks at the barbie-pink bandeau across your chest, and you arch into his touch when his fingertips brush your pert nipples through the stretchy fabric. He ducks his head against your collar, tonguing the smooth skin with a harsh breath. Two fingers hooked between your tits to drag the spandex down around your waist. His eyes are half-lidded when you draw your fingernails up his cheek.

“Get the camera,” you huff, his wild eyes peering down at you as his fingers scramble for the heavyweight thing leaving a shallow dent in his mattress. He aims it right at you, capturing your chest, up your neck, and the careful swoop of your baby soft cupid’s bow.

But you whine, “not of me!” and plant your palms over your face with a squeal. He’d scold you for it if he wasn’t completely taken with the likes of you. The photo slips onto the pillow next to your head, camera sitting beside your bicep while he licks his lips and leans slowly, mouth waiting with bated breath as it meets the tenderness of your bare breasts. One hand cups the other while he laps at your nipple with a soft groan rattling shockwaves through your chest like a battering and deadly riptide.

You weave your deft fingers into his messy hair and lift the camera above your head, fumbling your thumb against the button, and shuddering when he blinks up at you from between your breasts. His eyes go light for a second for the camera, flashing deep hazel rimmed with brown as he’s blinded. But it doesn’t matter with your skin lush and salty on his tongue.

He’s a little foggy when you sit up, but you nod to the wall his mattress is shoved up against, and he slumps towards it, gripping your hips until you wiggle into his lap.

With his heart beating on your back, you tilt your head to the side, and he slides the pad of his thumb just beneath your hairline where his name is tatted in sloppy black ink. He kisses it and hooks his fingers under your jaw to look you in the eye with a hungry grin. You lift the camera, and it clacks when he kisses you, full of tongue and saliva and gutterbrain when his grip goes slack, both hands down and cradling your ribs as they expand with air. With staggering and stuffy satisfaction. With life when his thumbs swipe beneath the curve of your breasts and he hums into your mouth.

You’re buzzing on high in his hands, and he can tell. Whether or not he’s touching you most of the time, it still makes you skittish and hot like this. Jumpy and tense and precious all under his roof and in his hands.

He brings them to cup your breasts, holding them against you because it makes you purr into his mouth. Heavy rings cold on your nipples, pinching with every flex of his antsy fingers. And it makes him harder against your lower back. Click, and the photo spits out against your calf, developing under your leg. And the camera is abandoned once his knees pin your thighs open wide.

The photos still litter his bedroom the next morning.

The boys creep up on him at his cluttered locker as he tucks the corner of a Polaroid picture beneath one of the heart-shaped magnets you bought for him. His ringed hands are clearly outlined, palms covering a pair of tits, hickey bruised against the girl’s jugular. Their eyes go wide, exchanging glances before Dustin shifts and clears his throat.

“What do you want,” Eddie barks, turning on his heel with a squinted glare

“Isn’t that the necklace you bought for—”

“Hi, Eddie,” you chirp, “hi, boys.”

Their sneakers shuffle back and forth on the squeaky linoleum while they narrowly avoid your eye contact and mumble nervous greetings. And you survey them slowly, with blind curiosity, at first. You blame it on their early-pubescent-nerves and brush it off. Then Eddie rocks forward with a grin, kissing the edge of your bubblegum pink mouth, giving way to a glimpse of the wide open door of his locker, newly decorated with a picture you recognize all too well with a rush of mortification.

Heart pounding, you glance back at the boys who have already scuttled halfway down the busy hall, whispering and giggling at each other. Eddie slips his arms around your waist with a content hum pressed to your warm temple.

“Good morning, bug.”

masterlist

This is so cute

But like imagine Alfie coming home and seeing you in bed with the dogs all over the bed, he tries to move them but he only gets growled at 😂

This is my obsession! I’ve spoken about it before but I am convinced Cyril is the first to figure out that you’re expecting. It’s almost tradition for Alfie to be met at the door by your pups, his favourite boys the first to greet him before he moves onto you for less sloppy kisses… but today Cyril isn’t there and it is just the newest of your family members at the door. He knows that you’re exhausted from your earlier call, partly the reason he had stayed on late to give you time to yourself and so he assumes that maybe Cyril too had fallen asleep in his space - the guard dog becoming dopey without his regular evening walk. So Alfie climbs the stairs quietly, the yapping of your other puppy softened by the torn teddy that lives by the door for moments like this, and finds you tucked up in bed with the sheets wrapped around you but strange of all Cyril sat upright watching the door as if you were under siege. Alfie has been in the dog’s life longer than you, every bit his master but also best friend so the last thing he expects is for Cyril to growl at him for trying to come near you and his own bed for that matter especially when the light is on and there is no possible case of mistaken identity. Eventually, the growling turns to barking and the noise loud enough to wake you but it takes you wrapping your arms around Cyril and telling him to lay back down to silence the “daft dog” before Alfie is even allowed close enough to kiss you. There just so happens to be a lot of irony in the words “what’s gotten into him?” when you realise that in fact, it’s you who is carrying something so precious.

This was supposed to be like a sentence I’m very sorry I just love Alfie and dogs.