Eden.

dick

that man is an octopus. he is alllll over you. on your side? his leg is thrown over yours, caging you in. on your back? he's lying on top like a weighted blanket. i just KNOW hes a human radiator so it’s great for the winter, not so much for summer… if he's on his back, he’ll have you on top on him, his hands wandering every which way. if he's had a hard patrol, he’ll come in and just flop on top of you, burying his face in your neck and not moving even when you squirm under him. he'll press hot kisses along your neck when you try and shove him off, just to get you to melt under him and let him stay. dick will just put his hands up under your sleep shirt just to be closer to you. he would get even more clingier if you try and get up while he’s asleep, even if it’s just to go to the bathroom. and his grip is strong. so you usually end up stuck since he won’t let you go even if he wakes up. 

jason

he only ever sleeps on his back or his side, his back facing the wall. he always mutters something about he just doesn’t want to be taken by surprise. however he’ll have you cuddled up against his chest, on arm slung over your waist if he’s on his side. he's not as clingy as dick but he's a touch starved guy so he’ll be a bit more touch in his sleep. never fear, you'll never be far out his grip. if he's on his back though, he doesn’t like it when your completely on top of him, saying it restricts his mobility but he’ll let you cuddle up with your head on his chest. lying close together never lasts long though, he always ends up star fishing and accidentally stealing all the blankets (jason just has the habit to burrow in as many blankets as he can). if you’re pouty about it the morning, he’ll just make you breakfast and quietly slide it over to you with does eyes  like the menace he is (you fold immediately)

tim

when he does sleep, he’s completely knocked out. like he either goes down hard or is the lightest sleeper ever. when hes knocked out he’ll be like a rock so you could essentially sleep however you want but he relaxes a lot more when you’re close to him. he'll unconsciously wrap his arms round you and tug you close if you even get close to him. he's not as clingy as his brother but he can be plenty clingy when he wants to be. when he’s sleeping lightly like a quick (forced) nap between working you can lie next to him and he’ll peek down at you before sighing fondly and tugging you on top of him like a human blanket. he’ll always manage to nose his way into the crook of your neck when he’s cold (he always runs cold and you're a heater to him) you'll flinch and pinch his side but he won’t ease up, so eventually you stop trying to stop him and just let him use you as a heater

duke

like dick hes a clingy sleeper. he'll be all over you, his favourite way to sleep is spooning where he's the little spoon, it makes him feel safe, and he loves to tip his head back and press little kisses to your collarbones or the underside of your jaw. but he also loves when you lie on top of him with your fully body weight. he’ll keep you trapped in his arms, but by the end of the night hes sprawled across the mattress. i think duke would also be a messy sleeper, like tossing and turning until hes tangled up in the covers. it annoys you so much because he's somehow managed to trap himself in the covers while you freeze your ass off. sometimes if you’re feeling extra petty about it you leave him to fend for himself instead of helping him untangle himself in the morning.

cass

she's a pretty chill sleeper. she’ll cuddle up against you, her head pressed against your chest so she can hear your heartbeat. she says it helps her sleep (you think it’s the sweetest thing ever) she also likes to be the big spoon, just so she can have you all wrapped up in her arms. i think cass would be a generally neat sleeper, like minimal movement except when she had nightmares and she just likes to cuddle, no matter the partner. when she takes naps she likes to curl up in your lap like a cat, her face pressed into your stomach, you think it’s sweet but tell her that she might suffocate if she sleeps with her face covers so often. she just deadpans and holds up her vigilante suit. that makes you shut up. cass is probably the best person the sleep with out of the whole family simply because she's so versatile and is pretty much comfortable with whatever her partner wants. as long as she gets her cuddles in the end :)))

steph

steph is both a clingy sleeper and and a messy sleeper. post patrol she’ll be all over you, just refusing to move off you, even if you say you can’t breathe, she would only shift a little to prevent you suffocating. she’ll lie on top of you saying she's going to sleep but then yap your ear off with patrol gossip until you're actually wiped out and she's nuzzling into your chest and the crook of your neck, just breathing in the smell of your body wash. steph would also somehow tangle the both of you in the covers with her night thrashing. it’s not even due to nightmares. she's just like that. you'll wake up in the morning, completely shifted around on your stomach while steph is halfway off the bed but somehow still blissfully knocked out. she falls asleep in the weirdest positions, like she’ll fall asleep mid convo if she’s tired enough, even if she’s doing like a freaking gymnastics move. she's just slide out of the move and flop on top of you, face buried in your hair, inhaling deeply like that's a normal thing for a person to do. you are always deeply concerned by the positions she falls asleep in. 

damian

at first he's hesitant to cuddle, only really ever cuddling with his pets, like letting them sleep on his bed on top of him. but eventually he comes round to the idea and just shifts all his pets onto you and joins them in cuddling you. he likes to feel like he’s protecting you, even in his sleep so he’ll be the big spoon, pressing kisses into your hairline if you can’t sleep. he's a relatively neat sleeper, never hogging the blankets or shifting around too much, only ever really moving with you. like if you start to wiggle around, he’ll wake up just to stop you from falling off the bed. damian is also quite a light sleeper so doesn’t particularly like having anyone on top of him, just for easy movement so he can get up in the morning without disturbing your sleep. 

bruce

that man either sleeps like a dead man or he’ll be all over you. there's no in between. he's just intense like that. usually he sleeps on his back and lets you cling onto him like koala but when he’s really feeling clingy he’ll smother you and just hold you as close to him as possible, like your thigh will be hiked up over his hip and his hands will be everywhere just so he can reassure himself that you're real and that you’re not going to leave him. when hes really sleep deprived, like dead on his feet, he’ll be so out of it he’ll just crash and nothing will move him. you'll have to use all your strength to get the man to roll over so you can get into bed. bruce never bothers with blankets or covers. he comes in from patrol and just flops straight on top of the covers after hes changed into comfortable clothes. he won’t starfish as such but he has a like a sixth sense so if you even move a fraction out of his grip, he’ll be tugging you back into his arms and not letting go. 

comment to be added to taglists (to general or specific) © kaiiii1009. no copying/plagiarizing/reposting/translation (etc) of my works. credits to @pixopix for the dividers.

Dex had gone white.

Then he had walked very calmly into the bathroom with one hand over his mouth and vomited until his ribs hurt.

Because yes, he loved you too.

He loved you so badly it felt like his body had mistaken affection for a terminal illness. He loved you until being away from you made his skin crawl. He loved you so much it made him cruel to himself. He loved you so much he wanted to crawl out of his own skin because wanting to keep you felt like a crime. He had wanted to be loved his whole miserable life, and then when you came along and loved him, he wouldn’t fucking trust it.

Because there was no way you loved him back.

Not really.

Not if you were whole.

Not if he had not done something to you first.

Because the first time you met, he had broken into your apartment. After all, your window had the perfect sightline into the building across the street.

Because you had caught him in your living room with a mug in your hand and sleep shorts riding high on your thighs, and he had looked at you like you were a small obstacle.

“What the fuck—”

His hand covered your mouth before you could get any louder.

“I’m sorry,” he said, genuinely, because he was one of the good guys now. “I just gotta do this one thing.”

You bit his palm.

He hissed, then caught your wrist and handcuffed you to the exposed water pipe under your kitchen sink.

He flexed his bitten hand once. “I said sorry.”

You glared up at him.

That day, you should have screamed yourself hoarse.

Instead, you had talked for six straight hours. 

You. Fucking. Yapped. 

Like a pomeranian on cocaine.

You had insulted his boots, his posture, his insane audacity. You demanded coffee. You asked if the gun was compensating for something (you later found out it was definitely not). You asked if he always tied women up before breakfast or if you were getting special treatment. You even threatened to bite him again if he came too close, then immediately asked if he was single.

Dex had sat by your window with a rifle scope pressed to his eye. He was pretty sure he fell in love somewhere between the twelfth complaint that your ass was sore and the twenty-first threat to sue him.

So now, eight months later, with you under him, legs wrapped around his waist and your body taking him so well he could barely breathe, all he could think was…

He had done this.

He had broken something in you.

Still, he moaned your name. You were perfect beneath him, pleasing him so well that his own voice kept dying in his throat every time he tried to speak. He could barely form the guilt into words because you kept squeezing around him like your body wanted him closer than close, like every thrust dragged a sound out of you that went straight through his cogmium spine and lit him up from the inside.

“You don’t love me,” he suddenly rasped, because of course he had to bring it up again while he was inside you.

You laughed, but it broke into a moan halfway through when he moved again, and the stretch of him made your whole body seize. “Dex…”

He choked on the spit buildup in his mouth because he was drooling at this point, his hands fisting in the sheets beside your head. “Fuck,” he breathed, voice ruined. “Don’t—don’t say my name like that.”

You tried to answer, but he was too much, too deep, fucking you into the mattress hard enough to make the bed frame knock harshly against the wall like every thrust was an argument he was losing.

“You’re so… hmph,” His forehead dropped against yours. His voice cracked. “God, you’re so fucking tight. I can’t think when you— when you feel like this.”

You could barely hear what he was saying, you just dragged him down by the neck and kissed the scar on his cheek. You were practically making out with it, because hyperfocusing on it helped bring you back to earth. “Dex… fuck!”

His whole body jerked at the sound.

“Don’t,” he rasped, but he didn’t stop.

His hips kept driving into yours, deep and rough, punching the breath out of you until your hands pawing at his skin. “Don’t say it like that.”

You tried to laugh again, but it came out as a shaky gasp when he pushed deeper. “Like what?”

“Like you, hmm.” His head dropped now, his mouth dragging wet and open against your throat. “Like you love me.”

Your nails dug into his back, giving his back scar company. “I do.”

Dex’s brows furrowed like you had hit him.

His pace faltered for half a second. Then the panic caught up to him and he thrusted harder, like he could outrun the words by burying himself deeper inside you. “N-no.”

“Yes.”

“No,” he said again, and it came out so small it was nearly swallowed by the filthy sound of his body moving against yours. “You don’t know that. You don’t know what this is.”

“I know exactly what this is.”

“You don’t.” His hand grasped the sheets. “You can’t. You can’t love me.”

You were struggling to keep your eyes open. He was stretching you so much every thought came apart before it finished forming, pleasure dragging through you hot and heavy, making your thighs shake around his hips.

Still, you forced yourself to look at him. “I do love you.”

Dex looked like he might be sick again.

Every time.

Every fucking time you said it, even if it was a hundred times a day, his heart broke a little. Like his body wanted the words and his mind rejected them. Like being loved by you was too impossible to fit inside him without tearing a wormhole open.

“You hear y-yourself?” he demanded, breathless, furious, hips still snapping into yours. “You hear how insane that sounds?”

You moaned, head tipping back against the ridiculously expensive pillows he had bought you because his last one ‘made your neck a little stiff’ once.

He groaned at the feel of you tightening around him. “Fuck… don’t—don’t do that.”

“I… ahh, can’t help it,” you managed, voice shaking. “I fucking love you.”

“No, you don’t.” He sounded almost angry now, but all of it was pointed inward, all of it soaked in guilt. “I cuffed you to a pipe. I— Fuck— scared you. I held you hostage and now you’re here, telling me you love me while I’m—” His teeth clenched, his body shuddering over yours. “While I’m doing this to you.”

“You’re not doing anything to me,” you forced out, gripping his arm hard enough to make him hiss. “I asked for this.”

His eyes burned. “That doesn’t make it better.”

“It does, actually.”

“You’re sick.”

“So are you.”

He laughed once, but there was no humor behind it. He then buried his face in your neck as his pace got messier. “I think I gave you Stockholm syndrome.”

“You didn’t,” you insisted. It was barely a sound, it was a miracle he heard you at all.

“You’re not listening.”

“You’re not thinking.”

“I am thinking.” His voice cracked on the last word because you tightened around him again and his forehead dropped to yours, “Shit, you drive me insane.”

“Good.”

“No.” He kissed you hard. “No, not good. That’s what I mean. You make me like this. You make me want too much.”

“You already want too much.”

His hips stuttered, and you saw the guilt pass over his face at once.

Then he drove into you harder. You cried out, and his eyes went dark.

“There,” he said, voice ragged. “That. You should hate me for this.”

“No, Dex.” Your hands slid up, catching his chin, forcing his face close to yours while he kept fucking you breathless. “You didn’t give me Stockholm syndrome. I. Love. You.”

He shuddered. His mouth opened, but nothing came out at first. Then a broken moan as his body betrayed him again.

“You don’t,” he whispered.

“I do.”

“You can’t.”

“I can.”

“You’re perfect.”

“I’m not.”

“You are to me.” His voice sounded raw, almost boyish in its disbelief. “And if you love me, then I did something to you. I had to. I had to have broken something, because there’s no– hnggf— no other way.”

Your chest tightened.

He was still moving, still taking you apart with a rhythm so desperate it bordered on punishing, but his eyes were wet. His eyes filled with self-hatred. He looked like a man starving at a feast and hating himself for opening his mouth.

“Fine,” you gasped. “Have it your way.”

Dex went still for exactly one second. Not fully, and definitely not enough to pull out. Then his body reacted before his mind did and he thrust harder.

It was as if the sentence had scared him so badly he had to pin you beneath him with his weight, his mouth, his hands, his hips. Like if he stopped moving, the words would become real enough to take you away. “W-what?”

“Maybe— hm, maybe you did g-give me Stockholm Syndrome,” you said, voice shaking, half from pleasure, half from fury. “Now what?”

His breathing turned ragged.

“So what, huh?” Your nails dragged up his neck into his hair, combing his scalp “You gonna tell me to go?”

Dex’s face soured. “No.”

“You gonna leave me?”

“No.” The thought of it made him sick. You could see it. You could feel it. His whole body tensed, his grip tightening, his hips losing rhythm for a moment before coming back rougher, deeper, more desperate. 

Leaving you was the one noble thing he kept threatening himself with, and the second you suggested it, it destroyed him.

“No,” he said again, like he hated you for making him admit it. Like he hated himself more. “Don’t f-fucking ask me that.”

“But that’s what you’re… you’re saying.” You were so close now you could barely speak, words breaking apart every time he drove into you. “If you really think you ruined me, then stop.”

Dex’s eyes locked on yours.

Your mouth trembled into a cruel little smile. “If you really think, you— shit, you broke me, t-then stop fucking me.”

His breath hitched.

He didn't stop. 

You felt it in the way his body went even harder, even more frantic, like the command had gone straight into the darkest, neediest part of him and went feral.

“I-if you think you’re bad f’me, then get off me,” you whispered, mean and gentle all the same, by his ear, close enough to lick the lobe. “Then don’t touch me. Don’t kiss me. Don’t come in me, because we b-both know you’re— hmphh— planning to.”

Dex groaned, tortured, burying his face against your throat.

“No,” he rasped.

“No?”

“No.”

“Thought so.”

He kissed you then, hard enough to steal the rest of the taunt from your mouth.

It was perfect after that, fucking perfect and awful. Your bodies slick with sweat, his hands gripping your hips like he was trying not to bruise you and failing at restraint in every other way. He fucked you like he was confessing and denying the confession in the same breath, like every thrust said mine and every sound said I’m sorry.

“You should run,” he rasped.

“You’d follow.”

His eyes burned.

You smiled up at him, breathless and shaking. “And I’d let you c-catch me. I’m fucking into it.”

Dex looked ruined.

His rhythm stuttered, and for a second you thought that was it, that he was going to fall apart right there, but he grabbed your hips and flipped you with quick motion that left you dizzy.

Then you were on top of him.

Your thighs trembled on either side of his hips, your hands braced on his chest, and Dex looked up at you like you were killing him. His face was flushed, eyes wet, mouth parted as you sank back down onto him.

“Say it,” he said, voice destroyed.

You moved over him, thighs shaking, pleasure making you unsteady. “Say what?”

His eyes opened, furious and starving. “Say– fuck, baby— that you know you could leave and I’d let you leave.”

Your chest tightened. “Dex.”

“Say it.” His grip tightened, not forcing, just holding on. “Say you know the door isn’t locked. Say you know I’d let you go.”

You stared down at him. At the man who had wanted love so badly it made him monstrous with fear. At the man who still believed wanting you was worse than first degree murder. At the man underneath you, shaking, begging for proof that this was not captivity while his body betrayed how badly he needed you to stay.

You leaned down until your mouth brushed his.

“I know I can leave,” you whispered. “I-I know you’d let me.”

His breath collapsed.

Then you kissed the corner of his mouth without ruining your rhythm. “But I’m not.”

Dex broke under you.

His hands slid up your back, dragging you down against his chest as he thrust up into you, needy and completely undone. You could barely keep up, barely keep speaking, your forehead pressed to his as you rode him. 

“I love you,” you said again. and this time, he knew you meant it.

That was what did it for him. Not the heat. Not the filth. Not the way you tightened around him or the way he was losing himself inside you, though that helped.

That.

The idea that you had chosen him with all your mind intact.

Your breath hitched first, then your whole body seized, pleasure dragging you under so good that your words turned into a ruined little sound against his mouth. Dex’s eyes widened, his hands clamping around your waist as you went through it.

“There,” he rasped. “There she is.”

You came too hard to answer him properly, nails digging into his chest as he kept you there. “There she is,” he said again, almost broken. “That’s my girl.”

And then Dex broke completely.

He buried his face in your neck as he came after you, groaning your name like an apology, like a confession, like it was the only prayer he knew. His body trembled beneath yours, his arms locked around you while he spilled inside you, holding on as if letting go too soon might make the whole thing disappear.

Afterward, Dex held you like an apology.

His mouth fluttered gentle kisses over your temple, your cheek, your throat, frantic in little broken bursts. He kept whispering sorry so many times the word stopped sounding like language and started sounding like breathing.

You were half-asleep against his chest, your fingers tucked loosely against his ribs.

He kissed your forehead again. “Sorry.”

You breathed out, half asleep. “For what?”

Dex went quiet.

He didn’t know, not really. He was sorry for the pipe, for wanting you too much, for needing you in a way that still scared him. He was sorry for looking at your love and thought it must have been damage.

His arms tightened around you.

You opened your eyes just enough to look at him. His face was ruined, like he was still trying to decide whether holding you counted as selfish.

You giggled softly.

“Dex,” you murmured, eyes half-lidded, fingers lazy in his hair. “If I’m broken, then I was broken when you found me.”

His breath stopped.

You smiled like that was supposed to comfort him.

Instead, it crawled into him and settled under his ribs, sweet and infected. It made his heart thump hard against his ribs. It made the guilt twist, mutate, turn into a warm and fuzzy feeling. Because there you were, looking at him like he wasn’t the man that had ruined you, but the man that had finally made sense. Like whatever was wrong with you had looked at whatever was wrong with him and fuckin’ purred.

Dex stared at you, eyebrows relaxing.

You touched his face, thumb dragging gently over his cheek scar, and he leaned into it before he could stop himself. 

Pathetic. So utterly gone for you. 

“I love you,” he said.

It came out hoarse. 

You shrugged like you knew all along. 

“I love you,” he said again. His hand tightened at your waist. “I love you.”

And for the first time, Dex wondered if Stockholm syndrome could happen the other way around, to the captor instead.

There was probably a fancy word for it. Some clinical term made by people with normal hearts. Something he could look up, self-diagnose, dissect, pretend to understand.

But Dex didn’t care.

If that was what had happened to him, then fine.

He didn’t want it cured.

—end.