not for all my little words.

Killer croc

- oh my god the (affectionate) clowning around he would do with a tiny s/o.

- Have you seen that meme where a short person puts their camera on their taller partner to see how they "look" to said partner? He wants you to do that and is probably guffawing at your reaction. You're so tiny! That's how he sees you all the time!

- He tries his best to not use too much strength with you. He just knows he's fucking ripped and big w/ claws. He's more worried about past/current anger issues hurting you more than you being small.

- In fact, you being so small means he can pick you up like a sack and sling you over his shoulder like it's nothing. (He thinks its SO funny if you fuss about it.) Yeah, he could do it to any of his partners given his strength but it's so EASY with you, fun size!

- oh you are going to get so many goofy ass nicknames related to your height- fun size, short stack, baby bird, his little beignet..... and he knows how ridiculous they sound.

- He will be very protective in certain venues, however. Concerts where you got standing? He is a wall blocking anyone from pushing at you. Crowds he's practically growling and snarling to give you breathing room. If anyone tries picking on you, he's There and Terrifying.

- he has tied a balloon to you so as not to lose you. When you point out he's so fucking tall there's no way he could lose you, he just gets this dumb smile on his face.

Bane

- He's the one that tends to act more like he might break you. I mean, he's actually broken people before. Snapped batmans back like a fucking twig that one time. He's acutely aware how easily he could.

- Yet you might notice thats A-Okay especially if you have any skin/body sensitivities. Him being careful is Good because even him being "gentle" is strong. He still picks you up around the waist like you weigh nothing if he needs you to move. Gives a light chuckle if you say anything.

- Talk about the big spoon. When you sleep next to each other, his body almost curls AROUND yours because of his size in comparison to yours. It's kind of like having a heated, weighted blanket. Nice during the winter but you'll probably want to make a pillow barrier in summer or you'll die.

- If you're ever somewhere you can't see above a crowd and it's appropriate, he's picking you up to put you on his shoulders. You can see, he gets his head between your thighs. Win-win.

- if hes ever feeling cheeky, he'll pick you up bridal style and pretend to use you as a weight, curling you up towards his body and kissing your face.

Bruce Wayne

To watch the way that Bruce takes defined repose amongst the gargoyles that delineate the upper echelons of the skyscraper they all cling to: he is magnificent.

Domineering in posture, intimidating in mien, with chiseled jaw and defined anatomy that has been gained through lifetime of hard-earned work.

“Fearless leader,” Dick says from besides him in calm recline on the edge. How very languorous he appears as he sways one leg over the ledge—death-defying heights have been old hat for him for some time now.

Bruce doesn’t respond. But Dick has accrued excellent skill to comprehend the hieroglyphics of his body language. So Dick continues into the silence subtly undercut by the ambience of a world teeming with life and soft-suffused light below, bathed in the chill of an unending night.

“Thinkin’ about hittin’ the hay anytime soon?” He asks—Dick has been none-too-subtle about eyeing the clock tower that looms in towering monolith within eyesight across the city skyline. The very one that determines that the time is closer to three than he would appreciate.

“We’ve only done one sweep of the city,” Bruce answers in rather unyielding, characteristic fashion. “It’s not sunrise yet.”

Dick knows better than to voice his opinion on that observation. So, perhaps it is divine providence that the chime of a familiar intercom beeps in the confines of Bruce’s cowl.

It’s a noise that Dick knows as well as he does the pulse of his own heartbeat shuttering in the real estate of his ribs—Bruce even more by intimate degrees.

It means that you’re calling. Dick provides excellent imitation of the gargoyle sitting besides him as he does his best to pretend he isn’t desperately eavesdropping on the muted din of your voice on the other end. Bruce raises the trigger finger to his ear that allows the dam to come cresting through.

“Bruce, it’s too late. You need to come home.” Dick strains to hear the dulcet tones of your voice in saccharine delivery. You aren’t mad: yet.

“We’ve finished one circuit of the downtown district,” Bruce returns in low timbre. But Dick knows the precarious thin ice that he operates upon—and knows what to expect from you in reply.

“Bruce, I’ve been tracking yours and Dick’s location for the past four hours. You two have been as thorough as you possibly can.” There’s a nuance of steel that is communicated in the advance of your argument, something lost in the patience you speak cadence with.

Bruce is no more than marble etching upon the ledge. Dick pretends that the loose thread on his glove is far more interesting than whatever is being spoken with soft threat into the shell of Bruce’s ear.

“Jace and Cass will be going out in half an hour—they don’t need you to double up with them.” Your voice speaks with logical reasoning, without erring in pico-decibel: you don’t need to assert volume of tone when your argument holds water to his.

Bruce’s voice does not err in retort—but there is a weakening as he replies. “It’s been a quieter night than most.”

Dick has to press the heel of his palm into his mouth and pantomime a sneeze.

“I’ve been waiting for you to come home. I don’t want to go to sleep in an empty bed, Bruce.” Comes a reply that is more plaintive in plea: the final death-stroke—appealing to a man’s empathy.

And surely not even the Bat is infallible to his spouse making plea for his presence in warming their marital bed.

Dick holds his breath. The silence makes endured duration measured in the gravity that it settles on his shoulders, his heartbeat.

“We’ll be back in fifteen minutes.” Bruce says in that infallible voice. But Dick knows a beaten man when he sees one.

“You better be. I’m not going to fall asleep waiting for you.” Loving but bearing an undercurrent of aggression waiting to be tested. The line crackles with a quiet burst of static and Bruce is left standing, regarding the city skyline he has spent a lifetime protecting.

“Let’s go back,” He tells Dick with the monotony that one resigned to their fate does. Dick tries his best to conceal his smile and fails miserably.

“Thought we were staying out later,” Dick responds, to which he receives a scowl akin to the glacial shelf splintering for his troubles. He can wade further in dangerous waters than others can: but even so, there’s only one person who can go for a swim in them.

And Dick knows that that person is at home, curled up in the office chair in the Cave, waiting for their husband to come back to them. They should all be so lucky.

Lobo

No one else understands, truly. It’s an odd thing, to see you, dwarfed nearly double in the way that he towers over you. It’s not that he operates with gentility around you, nor that he is of more gentlemanly, chivalrous quality. But he is, for lack of better word—tolerable.

Much as he is with you seated on the spread of those massive thighs, scratching the barrel of his revolver idly against the stubble of his jaw. Watching the league who views him with open disdain as he runs idle finger down the meter of your shoulder.

“So who you want fragged?” Lobo asks, working his thumb into the nuance of your skin, a self-soothing motion that you lean into. How very like a doll you look, seated upon him like some trophy of past hunt.

Clark sighs silently through his nose, using the remainder of his patience to proceed. “Not fragged, captured.”

Lobo makes a shrug that lifts you with the flex of that great muscle that you’ve taken residence upon, a note of indifference carried in his grunt. “Same difference. Money spends all the same.”

Diana decides to take the torch for Clark on this one, crossing her arms over the span of her chest. “You’re getting immunity for this one. Not money.”

It’s here the bear is successfully poked—Lobo rears forward with subdued outrage spelled on his lips. His hand tucks around you to keep you stable as he takes advancement towards the League.

“Immunity?” He spits out the word like the anathema that he views it to be. “Thought the credits were part of the deal.”

It’s clear that something is burgeoning if someone doesn’t make mollifying statement. And this is where you come in, turning topside to rub a hand on the underside of his jaw, your voice drawing through the miasma of fury roiling on the horizon.

“But if you’re pardoned—”—You make defense for the point, your words level, unhurried.

To Clark’s surprise, Lobo seems to deflate in tick of shoulders as he takes reckoning of your words—“—No one can do a thing until you make another crime. So you get a grace period, honey.”

Lobo weighs the gravity of your argument, considering the virtue of this. Letting reasoning weigh out over knee-jerk reaction. And then: he settles, letting the heft of his body, and you with it, angle back into recline.

“Hmmmm. Alright.” He amends his mood after great interval of thought. His hand works into your cheek, worrying at the sink of the skin to let himself reintroduce his touch to your body.

“So, uh, when’s that go into effect?” Lobo asks through his teeth.

Clark recovers. “Once you bring back the prisoner.”

“Yeah.” Lobo nods in affirmative; a slick grin crosses his mouth. “It matter if they’re missing a limb or two?”

You take point on this one, piping up with careful directive. “Probably does, honey.”

“Ahhh. You justice league fucks are boring.” Lobo’s head rolls on broken swivel as he flexes the tendons of that column of neck.

“Whatever—”—He rises to his feet, not even seeing necessity to let you be relegated to the ground. Up you go in princess carry, one-handed, with such ease and such comfort—you’re exactly where you want to be. Where he wants you to be.

“See you idiots in a few days.” Lobo makes by means of farewell—and departs with you in tow, smiling with cheerful wave goodbye. No one exhales in relief until you both are gone.

It's probably for the best that he always brings you along on these little social calls.

Miguel O’Hara

Miguel stands before the obelisk of information relayed in milliseconds—a flurry of realities that have yet to be comprehended by any but he.

The vortex of information so vast and multitudinous but his to perceive alone, made easier in the translation by the time that he’s spent in the deluge—his to command. His to protect. His to control.

The hours are demarcated by the noise that ebbs and flows from distant hallways. They indicate the patrols that have returned from missions he has organized, rescues he has arranged, acceptances that he has dedicated to the roster.

All his to make mastery over: but still nothing is perfect. Nothing must be left unattended so long as an iota of detail is left out of place.

“How long has it been since you’ve eaten?” Comes a voice so dedicated to the sanctity of his memory he can conjure conversations without needing hear the source. He keeps his eyes trained on a strain of information so fluted in passage that he delays response to better decipher it.

“Miguel,” You warn—he is working your patience. It’s something that you permit to a point, which necessitates that he must speak. And in providing an answer, he becomes aware of his other faculties returning to him.

The scent of your body which is his alone to taste. The shudder of breath returning to you in normal meter, disrupted in homeostasis by the mission he directed you to. The smell of fresh, baked dough that barely restrains the fresh aroma of meat.

“I don’t need to eat,” Miguel returns in passive response, which is answer enough. He continues to scroll through screens that dictate avenues yet unexplored.

And a hand that he has felt on every inch of his body makes slow, unhurried journey up the slope of his arm, searching for the Miguel that shares a bed with you. The Miguel that knows you deserve more than dismissive shoulder.

This is why he turns the arc of his gaze away from the screen, so that radiant afterimage winks in his vision, framing you in beatific display of light. Marking you as the heavenly body he does not deserve, come bearing gifts to his humble altar.

“You need to eat,” You offer in determined gentility—and because he has made mistake of directing his body to you, making himself exposed—you go in advancing offense.

He does nothing to stop the journey of your hallowed form into his lap, the muscle of your thighs working around the great span of his.

You are a shape that he takes into detailed worship on instinct; the rough underside of his hands navigating down the flush of your hips. His broad fingers clenching in proprietary nature: you are his and it is uncontested even by you, who works yourself against the plateau of his chest.

But he cannot claim the privilege of your mouth slotted against his. Not until he acknowledges what you press with the encroach of your knuckles against him. His eyes dare briefest of glances to what lies in your hand on unassuming plate.

“Pupusas?” He asks in inquiry. His brow is moved in inquisitive arc, and you smile.

“So you do have object permanence,” You joke in manner only you may do so. He accepts your gift without removing the press of his stare from you. The other hand he works around your waist compensates for what he must sacrifice.

“How else would I keep you in here?” He asks—and here carries multitudes, as does everything for him. In work, in collegial bearings—in the twisted sheets he keeps you pleased in. You finally reward him with a genuine grin.

“You don’t need to try,” You reassure him of a truth he always needs to hear again. “But you do need to eat.”

Your arms work around the impressive schooling of those shoulders that are less-resistant by degrees to your touch. Your forehead presses against his as he drinks in appraisal of you like a starved man.

“So eat, Miguel,” You order him, “Then you can have the main course later.”

And he becomes poignantly aware of the pulse that thrums in the column of your neck: his as well. And because Miguel knows the exchange of quid pro quo: for you alone, he obeys.

Wade Wilson

Logan uses the operative term ‘handler',’ while Cable has adopted the phrase ‘caretaker.’ It’s of assumption that either would be excellent term to explain the categorization of your relationship. But it always comes into excellent demonstration whenever the two of you are tasked into collaborating with other people.

Though perhaps Peter would better describe this as ‘foisted into unnecessary circumstances.’ After all, he needs a sharpshooter, and he needs backup. And this is where the two of you come in.

“Aren’t they, just like,” Wade says as he takes near perch on Peter’s elbow, overwhelmed with ebullient glee, “Just so cool when they post up like that?”

Peter would agree if it wasn’t perhaps the approximate 84738292nd time that he had seen you knelt over the ledge, sniper rifle held in the firm housing of your arms. Watched the way that your eye squinted into scope that perhaps was not even necessary, save for reassurance for Peter’s sake.

“Yes, Wade,” Peter agrees in rather resigned notion, “They are.”

“Just you wait, Spider-Manling,” Wade coos into Peter’s ear, mask doing little to disguise the spittle that is currently splattered on the interior of his cowl, “One day you’ll get to wear the big boy pants and have a partner like mine.”

“Uh-huh, Wade,” Peter says. The friendly neighborhood Spider-Man considers how long it would take for Wade to dissolve the webbing if he pinned him to the concrete ground right now. “I can only hope.”

“Just make sure they have some type of survival skill on hand,” Wade chirrups with oblivious devotion, “Wouldn’t want them to be a liability in the old cape-crusading endeavors—”

Peter doesn’t usually weigh the virtue of manslaughter, but thankfully, this is where you speak up. The diction of your voice is both restrained and layered in a patience that seems near effortless—and with nary a degree of vexation.

“Leave the nice spiderling alone, Wade,” you direct as you trail the barrel of the rifle in refined arc, “And come over here and rub my shoulders.”

“Your wish is my command, my liege,” Wade instantly releases Peter from the crushing grip of what he qualifies as embrace. It’s almost as if there is cartoonish silhouette of smoke where a Deadpool once stood.

He crouches behind you with such diligent airs, fingers pirouetting as he warms up for the attack—and slides Peter a conspiratorial look that Peter perhaps wishes he could’ve gone without.

“That’s my sniper main,” Wade croons, working his knuckles into the slope of your shoulders, “Gonna tranq the baddies Spider-Man needs you to bag, you’re so cool—”

“Just like my man,” you say back without any errant disruption of your expression—but the sincerity layered in your voice is without question. Peter can only marvel as Wade makes rather coquettish giggle, and continues to make diligent craft of massage into the seized knots of your shoulders.

“I don’t get it,” Peter mutters. But he stares—and admires the besotted Wade Wilson—all the same.

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A madman had destroyed the city, the floods having killed and displaced many, with buildings being torn into ruins, damaged by the intensity of the water that crashed through them. So many staples of the city were gone, the bricks having crumbled under the pressure of the floods, but one still stood, and this one dear to his heart.

As beaten and bruised as it was, Monroe's still stood strong in the East-Side. The interior left a lot to be desired, the grand chandelier finding its new home on the flooded wooden floors, once polished and sleek in their prime, now ruined by decay. Tile withstood such damage, with only a few squares by the bar having been lifted up, the rest laid flat yet showed signs of scrapes and wear. It wasn't entirely hopeless, floors could always be fixed, and the stage had survived its beating from the violent surges of water.

Inside of him was a selfish desire to buy the building, to restore it to his former glory solely for his own satisfaction. It was a notion based entirely on sentiment, as the first time he had heard live music was in Monroe's, and he had fallen in love with it from that night on. A repair and refurbishment of the club would be a labour of love, and without the Iceberg Lounge to occupy anymore, Oswald was more than willing to devote himself to Monroe's once more.

"You bought this?"

"What, you don't like it?"

"Well, it's a little...run down?"

"Nothing that can't be fixed, baby. C'mon, its got its charms."

"Uh huh." It was difficult to be convinced by his odd sense of optimism about the place, but he seemed to be excited, so you played along for the meantime.

Oswald looked around the room, transfixed by the memories that came back to him, so real that he could almost see a younger version of himself sitting in one of the booths, soaking in the live music. A part of him wanted to feel that way again, to fall utterly in love with the soft and sultry melodies of live jazz music, and he wanted you to help him do it.

He turned to you, hands finding your waist as he gently spun you around to look at the stage. "Can't you imagine yourself up there?" His lips brushed against your ear, his breath sending a shiver down your spine. "I'll make it perfect for ya, I promise. Lights, a microphone, a great band, I'll get it all for you."

"You've got a killer voice, sweetheart, like a songbird. All you gotta do is sing and I'll handle the rest." He wanted you to sing, to be the star of the show while he pulled the strings behind the scenes to make it perfect.

If Oz was truly so passionate about restoring the club and insistent on your involvement, then who were you to deny him?

You turned around to face him, your hands planted on his chest as you leaned in just close enough to make his breath hitch. "Treat me like a star, Oz, and we've got a deal."

His hand cupped your cheek, thumb drifting down to lightly pull at your bottom lip before he spoke. "I'll give you everything you could ever want." Without another word, he sealed the promise with a kiss, lips pressing against your own as he cradled your face.

But before you could truly be a star, Monroe's would have to undergo a transformation to return to its former glory; Oswald would make sure that happened.

The construction process would take a while, you knew that, but you wanted to see the club develop as the days went on, to watch real change happen as it was slowly restored to a functioning state.

As soon as the chandelier had been removed from the floor, the space seemed far more open and easy to work with, allowing you to visualise what it could look like upon completion.

"I know it ain't done yet, but I wanted you to get a better feel for it." Despite the interior looking more like a construction zone than a put together club, Oz wanted you to be involved in the process of putting the pieces back together.

You hummed in approval, steeping over the dance floor to approach the stage, the marble steps slightly scratched but still intact. "So I'll be..here?" You asked, stopping in the centre of the stage to look down at Oz.

A spark ignited in his eye as you took the stage, mouth tugging into a grin as if he had been waiting for this moment his whole life. "You got it, baby. Right there." Like a man starstruck, Oz stepped closer to the stage until he was within reach, grasping your hand to press a kiss along your knuckles. "You're gonna be perfect." His voice was soft, reverent. How could he not admire you? To him, you were a dream come true.

Your thumb brushed against the back of his hand as you entwined it with your own, pulling him closer with a light tug. "Better not lose my voice then, huh?"

The mere idea made him scoff, a breathy huff emerging from his mouth. "Not a chance, sweetheart." His dream was so close to becoming reality, and he wouldn't let anything get in his way now. Hell, if he could speed up the refurbishment, he would.

Oz took a steady step up onto the stage to join you, unable to stop himself as he marvelled at the work he had made. He had built this with you at his side, your hands together with each tile placed.

A tender feeling tugged at his heartstrings as his eye wandered over the club, still in the midst of its restoration, but nothing could look more beautiful to him. Yet even despite soft sentiments, insecurity still shone through the cracks of a put-together man. It was instinctual, really, a gut reaction after years at the bottom.

"You really believe in this?" As much as he hated to sound desperate, Oz could hardly help but seek for your approval. He needed to have someone in his corner and that someone was you.

You turned to face him head-on, palm cupping his cheek as he awkwardly shifted under the weight of his own vulnerability. For a man like him, the idea of being raw was one he often avoided entirely. "I believe in you, so, yeah, I believe in this. There's something special here."

Special was the only word for it, Monroe's had magic in the air. Destruction had only made its flame flicker, but a fresh coat of paint and a few repairs managed to relight the place with a new lease of life. But it still had a long way to go.

"Don't get all sappy on me when the place isn't even finished yet." You chided, giving his cheek a light tap in reprimand.

Oz responded with a faux hiss of pain, pulling back to rub at his cheek as though you had slapped him. "You ain't so sweet, huh, baby?"

"I'm too nice to you as it is."

"You call that nice?"

"Nice enough." You bit back, though you softened as you pressed your lips against his scarred cheek to soothe the sting he pretended to feel.

A chuckle rumbled in his chest as he nudged his face toward your own, seeking more of the affection you had given him. "Don't be too mean to me, honey, my heart can't take it." Oz muttered, wrapping an arm around your waist to hold you close. "Like it better when you're sweet."

Despite his apparent plea for sweet romance, his hand had slid down to palm the curve of your ass, and you could only laugh as a glinting grin flashed across his face. "As if you're being sweet to me." You grumbled, annoyance entirely insincere as you arched back into his hands, letting him grope you.

Oz raised a brow, "What, you think this ain't sweet? C'mon, how am I meant to show ya how much I love ya?" His form of affection was loud and proud, currently on display for the construction crew to watch.

You gestured to the poor men trying to do their jobs, reaching to gently coax his hand back into your own. "Place isn't open and you're already trying to put on a show." A whisper against his ear, one that sent a slight shiver down his back. He took it as a challenge.

"We own the place, sweetheart, let 'em look." His hand had returned to its place on your ass, giving it a more firm squeeze whilst his lips brushed against the side of your throat. Oz could hear the way your breath caught, stifled by teeth sinking into your bottom lip. Now that was sweet.

As much as you wanted to give in to his warm hands and tender lips, the place needed to get fixed up, and for that to happen, the construction team needed to remain focused.

Reluctantly, you pulled back with a soft pout, though not before your lips pressed against his cheek once more. "How about you keep the shows for the paying customers?" That brought a laugh from his mouth, drawn deep from his chest and released into your ear.

"Alright, alright." Oswald conceded as if he were a naughty schoolboy, drawing his hand away from your ass to rest on your back instead. "But I'll have ya on that stage sometime." He rumbled into your ear, giving it a slight nip to prove his intent true.

The grand re-opening had garnered much more attention than you had ever expected, though why did you ever suspect that it would be a quiet affair? Oswald was anything but quiet. This was a passion project for him, so deeply personal that to give it anything but a large burst of new life would be an insult.

He had friends in high places drawing the spotlight back to the once iconic jazz club, forgotten years after its spark had faded. The club was alive with a new energy, pulsating through the walls as though it had experienced a spiritual revival.

You could hear the buzz beyond the curtain, the vibrating hum of clinking glasses and low chatter that spread with eager excitement. Something about it made your stomach churn. Everything was riding on you.

The reborn image of the club rested on your shoulders and depended on your performance. As if he had heard the doubtful thoughts swirling in your mind, Oswald had appeared behind you with a large grin, planting his big hands on your shoulders.

"Well, if it ain't my star. You ready, sweetheart?" His energy was nearly bursting through that grin, his fingertips lightly digging into your skin as if to contain himself. But he noticed your apprehension, that nagging worry that lived in the back of your mind, now rearing its doubtful head.

Before you could get a word out, Oswald gently hushed you, cupping your chin with his hand to guide your face to your own reflection. "Come on, baby. That's a star right there. You ain't got a thing to worry about, not one thing." His voice was soft, coaxing you to relax into his hands as he cradled you close.

"I just want everything to be perfect." The admission came in a soft huff, as though you had already imagined what could come of your failure. But he was having none of it.

Oswald shook his head, darting around to press a delicate kiss to your cheek. "And it will be. Everything is set up especially for you, this ain't just for me, sweetheart." He had gone to the effort to ensure that the microphone was propped to your height, that the spotlight would hit your body just right, and that the sound was perfect.

You could only nod, he had gone to such great lengths to ensure your success. What good would it be to tear down that effort with nagging self-doubt? "Just be close when I'm done, okay?" His reassurance was the key to your calm, a lifeline that you could rely on even if things went wrong.

"I'll be right there with ya, doll." Oswald murmured, brushing another soft kiss to your temple before he gave your shoulders a squeeze. "But right now, we gotta get you out on that stage." Showtime.

The task of meeting and exceeding expectations weighed heavily upon your shoulders, seen through the stiff steps you took towards the curtain, shoulders tight and jaw locked. But Oz was with you, and that meant more than the opinion of anyone sitting beyond the curtain.

You took inhaled a breath and let the air fill your lungs, as if to coat them with courage for the performance that faced you. A lighter step towards the curtain and it was parting, revealing you to the waiting eyes of the crowd.

The microphone was waiting, as were the patrons, and you steeled yourself to grasp onto the stand, wrapping your fingers around it to anchor yourself to the stage, the spotlight almost blurring your vision of the crowd. How could they be scary if you couldn't see them?

Breath came and went as you listened to the sultry tune begin, and as your voice carried the song through the club, all eyes were on you. The eyes of one man in particular were the most important. You had done it, you had made him proud.

Oswald was at the side of the stage, all of his senses engulfed as he drank every part of you in. His eye caught your own, and he gave a wink as if to say 'I told you so' , you could practically hear him thinking it as he let his eyes flicker over the crowd. They loved you.

Despite your newfound stardom under the spotlight in Monroe's, Oz had always known that you were a star; you were his star. All he had to do was give you a stage and some courage, and he had his very own songbird to share with the world. But you were his songbird first.