#brainrotss

minors dni.

need to get this thought out bc its become all consuming:

dale cooper is a man who smacks ass.

hear me out, you think this fbi detective doesnt like to rought it up? he can literally manhandle you with ease and could care less if your ass is sore and red, especially when your crying out with each thwap of his hand coming down, hard. He isnt nice about it either.

Hes feigning sympathy, apologizing for hurting such a pretty thing like you. But he cant help it, not when your his weakness. This worsens when his cock is actually inside you, driving his thick cock through your walls till he knows its the only thing you'll come to recognize off shape alone.

and how could he miss your walls squeezing his cock so tight with each smack? thats especially when he would get mean, making fun of the fact that you're enjoying this. grunting out, "oh honey, you're squeezing me like ill leave you." His hand making way to your nape, eventually his fingers grasping hair and pulling your head back, forcing you into a deeper arch as his chest is against your back.

☆ pairing — ex boyfriend! jason todd x ex vigilante! fem reader | angst

summary ☆ In the smoky haze of a downtown nightclub, you’ve built a new life far from the rooftops and shadows of your vigilante past—a life where the glittering stage offers control, certainty, and the promise of another tomorrow. But when Jason Todd, the ex-lover who begged you to walk away from it all, shows up in the private room Bruce Wayne reserved, the fragile balance of your world begins to crack. Jason isn’t surprised by your new path—it fits your history, your love of the stage—but his frustration and lingering feelings force you both to confront the choices that tore you apart. As old wounds resurface and unspoken truths linger, you’re left questioning whether the freedom you’ve found is enough to keep the ghosts of your past at bay. wc ☆ 3k

The air in the club was thick with smoke and heat, the kind of atmosphere that clung to your skin like a second layer. It was always like this—neon lights splashing over bodies, music that seemed to bypass the ears and hammer straight into the chest. You knew the rhythms of this place as intimately as you’d once known the cold steel of a grappling hook or the weight of Kevlar pressing into your ribs.

Bruce was waiting, as he always was, in the far corner of the room. He didn’t look out of place, not exactly—men like Bruce Wayne never did—but there was a severity to him that the club couldn’t soften. He was all sharp angles and unreadable eyes, his suit too crisp for a place like this, his presence an accusation in itself.

You spotted him before he saw you, and for a moment, you hesitated, letting your gaze flick over him. No doubt he was here for his usual check-in, his thinly veiled attempt at making sure you hadn’t spiraled into something worse than this. But there was nothing worse than this, was there? At least, that’s what they’d all think.

They didn’t understand, and you had no interest in explaining.

You approached him with a slow, deliberate gait, hips swaying to the bassline, a cigarette perched between your fingers. Bruce didn’t react until you slid into his lap, resting a hand on his shoulder as if you belonged there.

“Is it time for our monthly meeting, Bruce?” you asked, voice low, words syrupy-smooth and cutting all at once.

His lips tightened, a flicker of disapproval in his eyes that you found, to your amusement, endlessly satisfying. “Not this time,” he replied.

You leaned in closer, your breath brushing his ear as you whispered, “Hopefully something pleasurable.”

He didn’t answer, just inclined his head slightly toward the back. The room he always reserved. His usual wordless command. You pushed yourself off his lap with a languid grace, flicking the cigarette into a nearby ashtray before walking away.

The private room was quieter than the rest of the club, the music muted to a faint vibration through the walls, but the tension in the air was suffocating. Jason was standing there, leaning against the far wall, his arms crossed in a way that seemed designed to stop him from punching something—or someone.

You let the door click shut behind you and leaned against it, one brow arched in a way that dared him to speak first. When he didn’t, you smirked, tilting your head.

“Funny, I thought Bruce was the one keeping tabs on me. Didn’t realize you’d taken up the hobby.”

“What the hell are you doing here?” Jason said, his voice low but steady, his eyes narrowing.

“I work here,” you replied flatly. “Or is that not obvious?”

“Don’t,” he snapped, stepping forward. “Don’t act like this is normal.”

“Who said it was normal?” you shot back, lifting an eyebrow. “Look, I’m fine, Jason. Thriving, even. I’ve got a steady job, my own place—” You stopped yourself there. He didn’t need to know about Roy. That wasn’t part of this conversation.

Jason scoffed, his hands balling into fists at his sides. “You call this thriving?”

You shrugged, your lips curling into a sharp smile. “I get paid. I know I’ll wake up tomorrow and come back. No masks, no blood, no wondering if tonight’s the night I don’t make it home. So yeah, I call this thriving. It’s not much, but it’s mine.”

“Y/N,” he said, his voice softening just enough to cut deeper, “you’re better than this.”

“Oh, spare me the bullshit, Jason,” you snapped, your voice sharp enough to pierce through his quiet concern. “I gave up the vigilante life, just like you begged me to. I got out. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“This isn’t what I wanted,” he said, stepping closer, his eyes blazing. “I didn’t want you to—” He stopped, dragging a hand through his hair, frustration etched into every line of his face. “Bruce is using you. You know that, right?”

“Bruce doesn’t use anyone who doesn’t want to be used,” you said coolly, though there was a faint flicker of something in your chest—a memory you didn’t want to revisit.

Jason laughed, short and bitter. “Yeah? And what’s he giving you in return?”

“Peace of mind,” you said simply. “Which is more than I ever had when I was running rooftops and getting shot at with you.”

That hit harder than you expected it to, his jaw tightening as his shoulders sagged slightly. For a moment, he looked almost small, and that scared you more than anything else.

“I just don’t want to see you like this,” he said quietly.

You shrugged, feigning nonchalance as you moved past him to the small bar in the corner, pouring yourself a glass of water. “Not my problem if you can’t handle it. You’re the one who showed up here, uninvited, might I add.”

“And you’re living with Roy?” he asked, his voice clipped, bitter.

The glass stopped halfway to your lips. For a moment, you didn’t react, didn’t even blink. Then, slowly, you took a sip and set the glass down, turning to face him with a smile that didn’t reach your eyes.

“What of it?” you said coolly, crossing your arms.

Jason’s expression darkened, his frustration boiling just beneath the surface. “So that’s it? You trade in the mask for… this?” He gestured vaguely as if the room itself were an accusation. “And Roy gets to swoop in and play house?”

You laughed, the sound sharp and bitter. “Oh, is that what this is about? You’re jealous?”

“I’m not jealous,” Jason snapped, his voice rising. “I’m pissed. Roy—he’s a good guy, sure, but he’s not—”

“He’s not you?” you finished, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “Well, thank God for that.”

Jason flinched, just barely, but you saw it, and for a fleeting moment, you almost regretted saying it. Almost.

“What I do and who I live with is none of your business,” you continued, your tone icy now. “You don’t get to waltz back into my life and act like you have a say. Not after—” You stopped yourself, clenching your jaw.

“Not after what?” Jason pressed, his voice softer now, but no less insistent.

You turned away, pretending to adjust the straps of your outfit, anything to avoid meeting his eyes. “Not after you begged me to give it all up,” you said finally, your voice quieter but no less sharp. “You wanted me out of the game, Jason. Out of the danger. You didn’t care what that meant for me, as long as I was safe. Well, congratulations. I’m safe. I’m alive. And if Roy’s couch is where I crash at night, so be it. At least I know I’ll wake up tomorrow and make it to work.”

Jason stared at you, his expression unreadable, his lips pressed into a thin line. “And this is what you call living?” he asked, his voice heavy with disbelief.

“It’s better than dying,” you shot back, your eyes blazing as you turned to face him again. “Better than wondering if tonight’s the night I don’t come home. Better than feeling like every step I take is just one more toward the grave. Do you think I like this? That I dreamed of spending my nights dancing for tips and dodging pitying looks from men like you? No. But at least I know I’ll survive it. Can you say the same about your life?”

Jason didn’t respond, his shoulders sagging slightly as he exhaled, his anger deflating into something closer to despair.

“I didn’t want this for you,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Well, tough,” you replied, stepping closer, your voice steady and cold. “Because this is who I am now. And if you can’t handle that, you’re welcome to leave. But don’t you dare stand here and act like you care. Not when you’re the one who pushed me into this life.”

Jason’s gaze dropped to the floor, and for a moment, he looked almost vulnerable, almost broken. But you didn’t soften. You couldn’t. Not now.

“And as for Roy,” you added, your tone cutting, “he’s got nothing to do with you. He’s there when I need him, which is more than I can say for you. So unless you’ve got something useful to say, I suggest you go back to whatever rooftop you crawled down from and leave me the hell alone.”

You didn’t wait for his response. You turned on your heel and walked out, the sound of your heels clicking against the floor echoing behind you. And for the first time in a long time, you felt a sense of certainty. This life might not have been what you wanted, but it was yours. And for now, that was enough.

The club was quieter when you stepped back onto the floor, the thrum of the bass no longer rattling through your chest. It wasn’t as late as you thought it was, but the room had already begun to empty, leaving the stragglers and the desperate to haunt the barstools. You spotted Bruce right where you’d left him, still poised like he owned the place, even if he’d never admit to frequenting it.

Jason’s presence lingered behind you like an unwelcome shadow, but you ignored it, pushing forward, your steps purposeful. Whatever that encounter had been—anger, guilt, whatever emotion he thought he could leverage to pull you back into his orbit—you weren’t going to let it shake you.

You approached Bruce with the same swaying grace you’d used earlier, though now it was sharper, more pointed. Sliding into the booth opposite him, you leaned on your elbows, your lips tugging into a dry, knowing smile.

“Was this part of the plan?” you asked, pulling a cigarette from a nearby tray, lighting it and taking a slow drag.

Bruce didn’t look at you at first, his gaze following the faint smoke trail curling above your head. “He was concerned.”

You laughed, a short, sharp bark of amusement. “Concerned? Is that what we’re calling it now? Funny how everyone’s concern only shows up when I finally find a place I fit.”

Bruce finally looked at you, his expression as unreadable as always, though there was the faintest furrow between his brows. “You think you fit here?”

“Better here than there,” you said simply, shrugging as you exhaled a cloud of smoke. “At least here, I know I’ll live to see tomorrow. That’s more than I could ever say when I was running rooftops with either of you.”

Bruce didn’t answer, and you didn’t need him to. His silence was its own kind of acknowledgment, a quiet acquiescence to your stubbornness. You sighed, leaning back and crossing your legs, the picture of defiant ease.

“See you next week, Bruce,” you said, sliding out of the booth before he could respond. “Don’t forget to reserve the room. You know how I hate to be kept waiting.”

You didn’t look back as you walked away, though you felt his eyes on you, heavy with thoughts he’d never say aloud.

The next week came quicker than you expected, the rhythm of your life falling back into its familiar patterns. Work was work, and Bruce’s presence was just another part of it, like the lights or the music. When he arrived, you didn’t hesitate, slipping into his lap as if you’d always been there, whispering teasing remarks into his ear that he didn’t bother to deflect.

What you didn’t see—what you couldn’t have known—was Jason.

He was in the shadows, just as he’d always been, a silent observer watching the two of you from a distance. He hadn’t planned to come back, but something had gnawed at him all week, something he couldn’t shake. It wasn’t just the way you’d dismissed him so easily, though that stung more than he wanted to admit. It was Bruce.

The way you laughed, low and throaty, as you leaned into Bruce, your hand trailing casually over his shoulder. The way Bruce, ever the stoic, let you. There was something there, something Jason couldn’t ignore.

And when you left the table with Bruce, disappearing into the private room without a backward glance, Jason followed.

He didn’t go in—he wasn’t that bold, not yet—but he hovered just outside, his jaw tight, his hands clenched into fists.

Inside, your laughter was muffled, but he could still hear it, along with Bruce’s low, measured tones. Whatever you were to each other—friends, allies, something more—it was clear he’d been shut out of a world you’d built without him.

And it hurt.

Jason stormed into the study at Wayne Manor that evening, his boots loud against the wooden floor. Bruce was already there, seated in his armchair, a glass of scotch in hand, his expression unreadable as always. It irritated Jason to no end—the way Bruce could remain so calm, so detached, even when everything felt like it was on fire.

"You knew I was there," Jason said, his voice low but tight, anger simmering just beneath the surface.

Bruce didn’t even flinch. He took a slow sip of his scotch, set the glass down on the table beside him, and finally looked up. "Yes."

Jason scoffed, running a hand through his hair as he began to pace. "And you’re just fine with it? Fine with her throwing herself into this… this life?"

Bruce leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers in that maddeningly composed way of his. "She’s not throwing herself into anything, Jason. She made a choice."

"A choice?" Jason turned on him, his voice rising. "This isn’t a choice, Bruce. This is—this is her settling. You’ve seen her! She’s better than this. She deserves—"

"She deserves to live her life the way she sees fit," Bruce interrupted, his voice calm but firm, cutting through Jason’s tirade like a blade. "And that’s exactly what she’s doing."

Jason stopped pacing, glaring at him. "And you’re part of that life now? You, of all people? Don’t you think it’s a little—"

"A little what, Jason?" Bruce leaned forward now, his tone sharper, his gaze pinning Jason in place. "A little inappropriate? A little manipulative? Because if that’s what you’re implying, you’re wrong."

Jason shook his head, his hands balling into fists. "You don’t get it, Bruce. She’s not thinking clearly."

"she’s thinking just fine," Bruce said evenly. "Better than fine, actually. She’s found a way to live without looking over her shoulder every night, without worrying whether she’ll wake up the next day. We can’t say the same."

Jason flinched at that, his jaw tightening. "She’s not supposed to be like this," he muttered, more to himself than to Bruce.

Bruce sighed, standing and walking over to Jason. He placed a hand on his shoulder, his grip firm but not unkind. "Jason, you left her. Whatever guilt you’re carrying about that, you need to let it go. She’s moved on. She’s found a life that works for her. You don’t have to understand it, but you do have to respect it."

Jason pulled away, shaking his head. "You don’t get it, Bruce. I—" He stopped, biting back the words he didn’t want to say.

Bruce didn’t press him. Instead, he walked back to his chair, picking up his scotch again. "She meets with me because she chooses to, Jason. I don’t force her, and I certainly don’t manipulate her. I won’t believe that you’ll discredit either of us for that."

Jason stared at him for a long moment, his chest heaving with barely contained frustration. Finally, he turned toward the door, his voice bitter as he said, "She deserves better than both of us, Bruce."

Bruce didn’t argue. Instead, he simply said, "Then maybe it’s time you trusted her to figure out what ‘better’ means for herself."

Jason paused at the doorway, his head hanging low, but he didn’t turn back. "You always have a way of making it sound like you’re right," he muttered, and with that, he was gone, leaving Bruce alone in the quiet of the study.

The door to the study swung shut behind Jason with a thud, leaving Bruce alone in the stillness. He stood there for a moment, swirling the amber liquid in his glass, watching the ripples settle. It wasn’t like Jason to retreat without having the last word—this was different. Bruce knew that tone in Jason’s voice, the frustration and the hurt he wouldn’t name.

Sinking back into his chair, Bruce took a slow sip of his scotch and allowed himself a rare moment of reflection. Jason’s words lingered, biting at the edges of his thoughts.

"She deserves better than both of us."

Jason didn’t know. He didn’t see what those meetings actually were—what they had always been.

Bruce let out a low sigh, his eyes narrowing slightly as he stared at the glass in his hand. You had chosen this life for yourself, yes, but your meetings with him were nothing like Jason imagined. There was no coercion, no strings attached, no sordid arrangements cloaked in dim lighting and shadows.

What Jason couldn’t understand—because he never asked—was that those meetings were just that: meetings.

When you slid into the booth across from Bruce or greeted him with your dry, teasing smile, it wasn’t about anything Jason would have assumed. You would talk—sometimes at length, sometimes in quiet bursts of conversation peppered with your usual biting humor. You’d ask about Wayne Enterprises, throwing in snide comments about the "corporate oligarch" sitting before you, but your questions were genuine. You wanted to know how things were going, what challenges the company faced, and how he was handling the relentless demands of his double life.

In turn, Bruce would ask about you. He’d ask about the club, your coworkers, and whether you felt safe. Sometimes, if the mood struck, he’d ask about the books he remembered you mentioned you were reading. And always, always, he’d ask about your well-being.

You never lied to him. If you were tired, you said so. If something had gone wrong at the club or with a customer, you told him. And sometimes—on rare, fleeting occasions—you’d let your guard down just enough to talk about the things that truly mattered, the things you didn’t admit to anyone else.

Jason didn’t know that the only thing exchanged in those private rooms was conversation. No physicality, no power plays—just two people finding solace in each other’s company even it’s just for an hour.

Bruce set the glass down and leaned back in his chair, his expression settling into something unreadable. Jason always assumed the worst because Jason’s mind was wired that way, a defense mechanism from years of betrayal and loss. Bruce didn’t fault him for it, but he wished, for once, Jason would ask instead of accuse.

You had made your choice to leave the vigilante life behind. And while Jason might have thought it was a fall from grace, Bruce could see it for what it really was: your way of taking control of your life, on your terms.

Jason didn’t understand yet, but maybe, with time, he would. Until then, Bruce will continue to meet with you as long as you choose to show up. Not because he needed you, but because he respected the person you’d become—a person strong enough to face the world without the mask. Something he was still unsure if he could achieve. 

He took another sip of scotch, letting the warmth spread through his chest. There would be no forcing your hand, no veiled attempts to pull you back into the life you’d left behind. You’d meet with him as long as you wanted to, and when you didn’t, he’d respect that, too.

Jason would never say it out loud, but his presence at the club last night wasn’t just about you. It was about him, about the guilt he carried for leaving, the ache of seeing someone he loved move on without him. Bruce knew that ache well—it was the same one he carried for every person who’d ever walked away from him.