Cw: Dubcon, Manipulation, Babytrapping?

Jason is just a fun lil guy. He loves the thought of fucking around with his brothers like how normal siblings would. Playing extreme tag, making pillow forts, running around in stores with them. He loves the idea. But the bats don't know this because they don't ask. To them, Jason is a big brooding guy who has a moody reputation to keep. Why would he want to do silly little things with them?

So the batkids have all this fun with each other minus Jason, because they don't think he's like that sort of thing, and minus Damian, because he's not interested unless his big brother is there too.

One day, Tim wants to film a TikTok. He goes to Dick, but he's too busy. Dick jokingly says to just ask Jason, and Tim is like: "Yeah, alright." So he does.

Jason: *Reading on the couch in his safehouse*

Tim: *Climbs through window*

Jason:

Tim: "Can you make a TikTok with me?"

Jason, suspicious: "Why me? Don't you usually go to other people for that shit?"

Tim: "Is that a yes or no?"

Jason: "Well, if you want me to.. what is it?"

Tim, pleasantly surprised: "We're going to play rock paper scissors to battle for our food."

Jason: "What-"

Jason and Tim in a weirdly lit, empty parking lot

Tim: "Ok, ok, rock, paper, scissors, shoot" *Rock*

Jason, holding up scissors: "Fuck!" *Starts running like his life depends on it*

Tim: "Haha, ok-" *Starts eating some chicken nuggets* "Hell yeah, these are good."

Jason: "Stop stop stop I'm back-" *Rock*

Tim: *Paper*

Jason, running away: "SHIT!"

The video ends with Jason finally winning a round. He starts to shove as much food in his mouth as he can. Tim trips on his way back and Jason laughs so hard he spits everything out and starts to choke.

Tim goes to Jason to do dumb shit now, and Dick is concerned for the rest of the world, unsuspecting of his brothers' BS.

smaller!reader

thinking about how the more time you spend with john (price), the more you notice he's so much like a damn bear.

during winters, the time on leave he gets for christmas is predominantly spent snoring with you tucked under his arm. if you even attempt to get up, price'll groan and whine about how you can sleep in just a few spare minutes with him. once he's finally up and out of the tangle of blankets and sheets, he'll pester you about taking a nap on the living room couch with him.

or how he uses the door frames around the house to sate his constant need to itch his back. pressing the between of his shoulders to the trim, letting out little grunts that sound suspiciously close to a bears huffy growls as he rubs back and forth against the wood.

the man is also a brute. broad shoulders that roll like the hills of moors; a chest that flexes and softens with nearly every breath. when you press your hand to him, your nearly stunned that you two are the same species solely based on how he's built.

but most of all, his forests of hair on nearly every expanse of flesh. the downy fur that adorns his chest, or the dark blankets that wrap around his forearms like armored cuffs.

it's part of his charm, you suppose.

Simon Riley got his fingers fucked up. Time spent under Roba's torture messed up the joints, made his digits barely able to flex and curl and left him with chronic pain, especially once the temperatures start to drop. It's alright, not the worst thing he came out of that encounter with, he can live with it. Doesn't bother him even that much.

It's just that Simon Riley used to love knitting.

Soft, creamy white, thick yarn turning into volumunous sweaters with huge warm collars his mother and his brother's bird could wear, safe from the nasty winter chill. Stripey socks, comfortable hats, long fluffy scarves - he could and would do it all.

Roba took it from him. Knitting needles became almost impossible to hold properly, struggling over the yarn mess for more than 15 minutes pisses him off and makes him never want to pick it up again. He can barely make a couple rows of a shitty excuse of a scarf, let alone finish a single thing.

And then Soap brings his LT over to his family home for their joint leave - two whole weeks in a household full of bustling life, hearty food and loving banter. In the evenings, when Johnny and all the younglings of the family have already spent their buzzing energy and are snoring in their beds, sometimes piled up like tired puppies, Simon and Mama MacTavish both are kept up by their insomnia. In a pleasantly dimly lit living room, this beautiful woman with white hair and noble profile sits, kitting - soft white wool of Highlands' best sheep turning into a sweater in her hands.

Simon comes to sit with her, calmed down by the sounds her needles make and the hypnotizing movements of her hands. First couple of nights he just lets it lull him to sleep before Mama MacTavish sends him off to wam bed with her snoring son already sprawled across it like a starfish.

Then Simon picks up needles himself. It's a slow, torturous process, his grip slipping, threads coming apart, frustration and anger at his useless fingers building - yet Mama's hands always come to rescue. She soothes the pain in his fingers, helps fix uneven loops, tells him stories of Johnny's childhood to distract Ghost from his angry mind. It works.

By the end of the leave he presents Soap the ugliest knitted hat with pompoms stitched to it in a row resembling a mohawk, and you bet Johnny wears it all the time, flexing in front of everyone who sees him in this monstrosity. He takes it to all the places he shouldn't, stubbornly unwilling to part with the gift, and loses pompoms - yet somehow Simon constantly sees new ones pop up on the hat.

It's Mama MacTavish stitching them on, because she knows, Simon needs a little help with this painstaking work for now.

(so mad i can’t see straight) Yeah i just don’t think chat gpt is a good classroom tool

Interviewer, catching Damian in costume: Robin! Can you explain the process of picking up Robin or passing on the mantle?

Damian, mildly annoyed at Bruce at the moment: It's quite simple. Batmam steals young children from their bed, usually nine or ten or so. Then he takes you to his lair and give you a deal.

Damian: If you can beat him in a game of your choosing, he will train you to be Robin. If you lose, you are eaten. I beat him in a classic fencing game. He's quite good with swords, but he wasn't very good with the sport itself.

Tim, standing next to him: Yeah, I beat him at a memory card game. I like totally cheated, but I'm too old for him to eat now, so ot doesn't matter.

Damian, nodding: Yes. The worst part of the job is disposing of failed Robins bones. He usually sucks them clean and leaves them all over the floor.

Tim: Yeah, its messy. But after you hit, like 15 he stops trying to eat you, so that's cool.

Damian: I have not yet reached 15. I'm still in danger. If you have more questions, ask Nightwing, as he was the first to avoid being eaten.

-

Same interviewer, at a different date: Mr. Nightwing. Is it true Batman tries to eat potential Robins?

Dick, who has no idea what she's taking about: Yeah, it's really scary. His jaw unhinges like a snake.

Is it a blessing or a curse to fall for a man who bears the weight of nameless sins, a killer haunted by his own guilt?

I mean, isn’t Soap the same as Ghost? They work in the same field and do mostly the same things. Just because Soap has a lighter step doesn’t mean he doesn’t have skeletons in his closet; he isn’t invulnerable to guilt, and maybe, just maybe, he finds comfort in knowing that both of them are damned to hell.

😈 You are not bound by the Hays code.

😈 You are allowed to have evil characters who are not punished by the narrative by the end of the story.

😈 You are allowed to have evil characters who win.

😈 You are allowed to have evil characters who make evil look fun and cool.

😈 You are allowed to make your fun, cool evil character the protagonist.

😈 You are allowed to glorify, romanticize and eroticize evil characters and villainous acts.

😈 You are not obligated to teach your audience a moral lesson.

thinking about getting a little too drunk w husband!simon…

he’s already a super possessive guy, but your drunken antics are only making it ten times worse.

sure, coming to the bar was his idea. it was only fair, after such a long week at work, that he got to have a nice dinner on the town and a few beers shortly after. even better that he got to do it with his pretty fucking wife, you know?

yeah, he watched you slip into the tightest, smallest dress you had, curl your hair into pretty little coils, and push and pull at everything else out of place. he saw the too tall black pumps you choose— the one’s he got you for your anniversary that make your legs look model-length long. he even saw the way your black lace bralette played peek-a-boo along your dress’s neckline.

all of it only made him more excited.

getting to show you off on the town? his sweet, sexy little woman all done-up and pretty, hanging off his arm like his little trophy? god, he was practically hard before you two could reach the front door.

the second that liquor hit your system, though, was the second all hell broke loose.

at this point in the night, you’re long past the idea of sitting pretty, eating your food, and posing for pictures. now, you’re feeling good. a little tipsy, or maybe even drunk. all the shyness or docile little feelings from the beginning of the night are gone.

now, you wanna dance. you wanna throw your arms up and sway with the other bar-goers, and why shouldn’t you be able to?

you didn’t mind the way your dress rode up your thighs, giving the wrong people an eyeful of your goods. you hadn’t noticed the men who’d run their hands over you, every so often passing by with their crotch just a little too close to your ass. all you were focused on was the music, how good you felt, and when your next shot was coming.

if only you had paid attention to the damn near menacing stare simon had you under. something that rivaled a madman’s with its intensity.

he’d held back for the first few songs, letting the angel on his shoulder telling him to ease up guide him. sure, he still stood around like an unamused body guard, sending glares to the gawking men and buying your drinks whenever you asked. maybe occasionally he’d get a cute picture or video of you too. that was just what came with the simon o’riley type though.

it wasn’t until you got to the flirty territory, grinding your ass into him with the music or kissing him with a little too much tongue, that he decided to pull the plug.

and god, did you always give him attitude for it.

“i’m not ready to leave, simon,” you’d whine, eyes glossed over and face screwed up in that cute little way you only do when you’re aggravated.

“i want another drink,” but you’re slurring and stumbling already.

“just keep kissing on me, baby,” you protest as he grabs your discarded shoes and purse and starts leading you towards the exit.

he’s sweet with you at first, given how drunk and cute you truly are. sure, you may have triggered his possessiveness early, but you’re batting your eyelashes up at him and clinging onto him for dear life. how could he not talk to you softly? how could he not kiss you back as he tugged your dress back down?

“it’s alright, lovie. let’s get home and i’ll take such good care of you.”

you start trying to fight him though and you’ll see how thin his patience truly is.

doing things out of spite? pulling his hands away from you while he’s trying to guide you down the street? arguing with him through your half-coherent sentences? cursing him under your breath just loud enough that he can hear it?

you’re getting yourself in trouble and you’re too drunk to know it.

he was prepared to let your little outbursts slide. wouldn’t hold it against you and still keep his plans straight for the night.

after all you’d done, he was still gonna get you home, slip off those stockings and undo those zippers. dedicate the rest of the night to making you feel all good like how you’d begging him too.

but you just can’t keep that pretty little mouth shut, can you?

“don’t make it worse for yourself.” he’d warn, grabbing your face from its resting place against his passenger-side window, “you’ve already fucked up enough as is, yeah?”

his voice is gruff and his jaw is set, but his eyes don’t leave yours for a second.

you’ll be making it up to him all night long, and he’s gonna be anything but nice now ;)

soap, somewhere in the base: "CAPTAIN GARRICK IN THE HOUSE!!!"

Morning 🌤️

Ghostprice art trade with the one and only @gomzdrawfr 🌸🫶

Check out her piece!