#And “look- I’ve been in and out of juvie

[sondheim-girly]

I was trying to figure out what outsiders ship a light or something would be, and hear me out: dallypop??? Like… it actually works really well??? Someone talk to me about this???

[dreamersworldduh]

Seeing as the people yearn for Brenton Thwaites Dick Grayson what about a fic where reader gets sent to prison for something stupid or whatever. He gets put into a cell with Dick. Dick is indifferent to his presence, but when reader gets threatened buy some inmates Dick offers protection in exchange for- well you know what! completely consensual but is an favour exchange

Thankuuu

PROTECTION

• DICK GRAYSON x MALE!READER

SUMMARY — In the brutal confines of Gotham State Penitentiary, survival depends on silence, strength, and knowing exactly who to avoid. When you arrive—fresh meat, still raw with the anger that got you locked up—you expect isolation, maybe violence, definitely fear. What you don’t expect is Grayson: your quiet, unreadable cellmate who keeps to himself, barely speaks, and yet commands a kind of fear that even the worst predators respect.

WARNING! 18+ MDNI. Suggestive Langauge. Swearing. Violence.

WORDS! 17.2k

AUTHOR'S NOTE! Okay, I know I’ve been absence but I haven’t been doing nothing—this fic right here took a week to finish and I have more coming. So be prepared for the flood, thank you for requesting—enjoy your reading✨🫶🏽

For the next twelve months, your home is Gotham State Penitentiary—cell block D, unit 43, third bunk from the left. A narrow slab of metal bolted to the wall, thin mattress, no privacy, and a toilet in full view. Why are you here? Because you did something reckless. No, scratch that—something flat-out insane. The kind of act that blows up your life in one quick, satisfying explosion. You knew the fallout was coming. You just didn't care—not in that moment.

Not when you saw your ex-boyfriend's face go white. Eyes wide. Mouth half-open, like the words he wanted to say got stuck in his throat. That raw mix of betrayal, disbelief, and something close to heartbreak—that was the payoff. That was what you wanted. That split-second where you had all the power, and he had nothing but shock. For five glorious minutes, it felt worth it.

Then the sirens wailed. Then the cops tackled you to the ground. Then the gates of Gotham State slammed shut behind you with a metal scream that echoed in your spine.

Intake was where it hit you. Cold tile floors. Buzzing fluorescents. The stench of bleach and sweat and fear. This wasn't juvie. This wasn't a night in a holding cell and a slap on the wrist. This was a maximum-security prison built like a fortress—gray concrete walls, watchtowers, razor wire, and no easy exits. Everyone here was doing real time. Fifteen-year sentences. Life without parole. Robbery, arson, aggravated assault. Murder. The kind of men who didn't just talk tough—they were tough. The kind who broke fingers like they were snapping twigs. No metahumans, no masks, but make no mistake: these guys were predators. And you? You were the new one. The untested one. The one who still smelled like the outside.

The guards? They barely looked at you. They'd seen a thousand versions of you before—new meat with a chip on his shoulder and regret kicking in fast. They barked orders, shoved you through processing, and handed you your jumpsuit like you were a product on an assembly line. And the other inmates? They noticed you the second you stepped onto the block. Some just stared. Others smiled. A few muttered under their breath. You felt it all—eyes crawling across your skin like ants. That smug defiance you brought with you? Gone. Somewhere between the strip search and the fingerprinting and the cold metal bracelet slapped on your wrist, it evaporated. Fast.

You started to wonder.

Was five minutes of satisfaction really worth a year behind these walls?

You're about to find out.

You stepped into the cell, the heavy metal door clanging shut behind you like a final verdict. The lock clicked with a dull thud that seemed to echo straight into your chest. No going back now. The room was barely big enough for two bunks, a toilet, and a metal sink. The air was stale, thick with the layered stench of old sweat, bleach, and institutional despair. Cold, too—like the concrete walls were leeching heat straight out of your skin.

You'd braced yourself for this—cramped quarters, zero privacy, the kind of silence that always felt like it was holding its breath. But what you hadn't expected was the guy already inside.

He was shirtless, crouched low to the ground, cranking out push-ups with a pace that wasn't fast, but relentless. Controlled. Like every movement had a purpose. His back was broad and cut with muscle, the kind you didn't get from casual gym visits. This was functional strength—prison strength. A body built to survive, not just look good. Sweat rolled down his spine in slow rivulets, catching the flickering fluorescent light above and making his skin shine like polished bronze.

His hair was damp and messy, brown and curling slightly where it brushed the tops of his ears. You could tell it had been cut a while ago, probably by clippers with no guard, the kind of rough cut you got from a guard or a fellow inmate with a dull blade. He looked young—mid twenties, maybe—but carried himself like someone much older. Someone who'd seen shit and came out the other side sharper for it.

When he finally finished a set, he rocked back on his heels and sat up, breathing steady, not even winded. That's when he turned his head just enough for you to see his face. Sharp jawline, a couple days of scruff, and a purpling bruise blooming under his left eye. His expression was unreadable—blank, almost bored. But his eyes were the curveball: deep brown, warm, soft in a way that didn't match the rest of him. Kind eyes. The kind that made you think of a loyal dog, the type that would follow you anywhere... or rip someone apart if you told it to.

You opened your mouth, figuring it was smart to at least introduce yourself. Tension like this? It didn't need help getting worse.

"Hey. I'm—"

Nothing.

He didn't look at you. Didn't ask your name. Didn't even flinch. He just reached down, grabbed a stained white towel—your towel, sitting on the lower bunk that was clearly supposed to be yours—and wiped the sweat from his face. Then, without so much as a glance your way, he dropped back to the floor and kept moving, muscles flexing again, the rhythm of his push-ups steady as a ticking clock.

You stood there for a beat, hand still halfway raised, words dying in your throat. Right. Message received.

So much for small talk.

You were seven days into your sentence, and already the rhythm of prison life had sunk into your bones. You woke up with the clang of metal, moved through the day like a ghost. No eye contact, no conversation, no sudden movements. Just survive. Keep your head down, your mouth shut, and your back to the wall. Blend in. Be invisible.

So far, it had worked. Mostly.

That afternoon, you sat alone at one of the scarred metal tables in the cafeteria, your tray of prison-issued "lunch" cooling in front of you. The food was barely food—grayish boiled potatoes swimming in lukewarm water and a scoop of something that might have once been beans, or maybe meat, or maybe nothing at all. You weren't trying to figure it out. You just chewed slowly, methodically, eyes locked on the tray like it held state secrets.

Around you, the room buzzed with controlled chaos: trays clattering, low murmurs of conversation, the occasional bark of laughter, the slap of boots against linoleum as guards walked their lazy loops. Nothing sounded urgent. Nothing felt out of place.

Until it did.

It started with a hush. Not loud, but unnatural. A drop in volume that spread like a ripple through water. A subtle shift in air pressure, like the room itself was holding its breath. The hairs on the back of your neck stood up before you even looked up. You'd felt it before, on the streets, in bad neighborhoods, in worse moments—when things were about to go sideways.

You lifted your eyes.

Three men. Moving with purpose. They didn't bother hiding it. They walked like they owned the floor, like the space around them belonged to them and they were just deciding what to take next. Big guys, all of them, their bodies built from endless reps in the yard and lives lived by force. Ink crawled down their necks, across their knuckles, dark lines telling stories of loyalty and violence. The one in front had a scar that split his face from lip to jaw, puckered and pale, like someone had tried to give him a permanent grin with a razor blade.

They stopped in front of your table.

Didn't speak. Didn't blink. Just stood there, letting their presence do the talking. The leader's hands were buried casually in the pockets of his jumpsuit, but the two behind him were coiled tight, fists clenched, shoulders squared. Ready.

You didn't recognize them, but from the way they were looking at you—like a wolf pack eyeing a stray rabbit—they definitely recognized you. Or thought they did. Maybe you looked like someone they hated. Maybe you'd stepped into the wrong shower stall without knowing it. Or maybe they just needed someone to make an example of.

Either way, trouble had found you.

And it brought friends.

The leader stepped forward until his boots were nearly brushing your tray. His shadow stretched long across your food, and the smell hit you—sweat, cigarettes, and that thick, sour stench of too many men packed into too small a space for too long. He looked down at your plate, then at you, that twisted half-smile curling up the side of his scarred mouth.

"Kang wants your tray," he said, tapping two fingers against the edge of it. Slow. Lazy. Like he was already bored with how easy this was going to be.

You didn't answer right away.

Your jaw locked. You stared at him, then at the tray—your tray. The same godawful meal every inmate got, but to you, it was everything. You hadn't bought anything from commissary since you got in. No cookies. No cup noodles. No candy bars tucked into the corner of your locker. This was it. The only food you were going to see until the next morning.

Give it up, and you were going hungry for the next eleven hours.

You looked at the clock on the wall. 6:00 PM.

No chips. No extras. Just this tray and your pride.

And pride in prison could be dangerous.

Still, you didn't move. You didn't flinch. You just met his eyes—briefly—and gave your answer.

"Nah," you said, voice low but clear. "I'm eating today."

The tap of his fingers stopped.

The smile faded. Just a bit. Enough for the temperature in the room to drop.

Kang didn't like your answer.

You saw it in the subtle snap of tension across his jaw, the way his lips twitched as if suppressing a snarl. Something shifted behind his eyes—like a door slammed shut and locked from the inside. Whatever mild amusement he'd been faking a moment ago evaporated. What replaced it was colder. Sharper. A quiet kind of fury, the kind that didn't explode—it waited.

The air between you thickened, as if the room had narrowed and the space around your table had turned into a pressure chamber. You could feel it. Something was about to happen.

Then, like someone flipped a switch, his two boys moved.

The one on the left cracked his knuckles as he stepped forward, broad shoulders rolling like he was stretching before a workout. He had that look—tight jaw, steady eyes, like he was already picturing your head bouncing off the table. The other guy circled fast, his boots silent, his posture practiced. He didn't hesitate. This wasn't his first time cornering someone. He moved like muscle memory was guiding him, like he'd done this same dance a dozen times before with the same ending every time.

Your hands tensed. You pushed your legs back under the bench just enough to brace yourself. Fight or flight didn't really exist in a place like this. There was only fight or fold. And folding too early meant you'd be folding every damn day after that.

Then Kang raised a hand.

Just a flick of his wrist. No words. No theatrics.

And they stopped. Froze in place mid-step like they'd been put on pause. Neither one said anything, but they didn't need to. The obedience was instant, reflexive. Kang didn't even glance at them—his gaze stayed locked on you.

The smile returned, but it wasn't smug this time. It was calculated. Cold. The kind of smile that says, Not today. But soon.

He leaned forward slightly, just enough to cross into your space without touching you. Close enough that you could smell the faint trace of mint gum—unexpected, oddly clean—and the sweat dried into the seams of his collar. His voice was low, casual, like you were sharing a joke.

"Eat up, rookie. Gotta keep your strength."

Then he straightened, turned, and walked away like nothing had happened. His crew hesitated half a second longer before following, their bodies still thrumming with restrained violence. They didn't look back.

You didn't move.

Couldn't. Your body was locked in place. Heart hammering behind your ribs like it wanted out. You could feel the weight of the room now—every stare, every unspoken question. The cafeteria hadn't gone silent, but it had definitely shifted. Conversations had dipped. Forks hovered mid-air. Dozens of inmates had watched the scene unfold, and none of them had said a word.

They didn't need to. The looks said enough.

You'd just made a move. Or a mistake. Or maybe both.

You turned back to your tray. The potatoes looked grayer now. The mush looked wetter. Your appetite, what little there was, had vanished completely. You forced one bite. It tasted like nothing and sat in your mouth like concrete.

And then—movement. Out of the corner of your eye.

Across the room, half-hidden in shadow, leaning against the back wall where the light flickered overhead.

Grayson.

Your cellmate.

He stood there with his arms crossed loosely over his chest, his back pressed against the wall like he'd been there the whole time. Maybe he had. His brown hair was damp, as usual, curling slightly at the ends. Sweat darkened the collar of his worn gray shirt. His face was unreadable.

He didn't nod. Didn't smirk. Didn't blink.

He was just watching you.

Studying you.

Like you were some puzzle he hadn't quite solved yet.

It wasn't judgment. Wasn't concern. It was something colder. More analytical. Like he was mentally filing this moment away, deciding what kind of person you were—what kind of problem you might become.

And that stare? That flat, steady stare?

It rattled you more than Kang ever could.

The next day, you were knee-deep in the laundry room, sweating through your uniform and elbow-deep in someone else's filth. The air was thick—humid, heavy, saturated with the sharp sting of bleach and the mildewy undertone of fabric that had soaked in too much sweat and too little detergent over the years. It stank. The kind of stink that settled into your nose and wouldn't leave, even when you scrubbed your face with cold water later.

It wasn't glamorous. Hell, it was barely tolerable. But you'd put your name on the assignment sheet the moment you got processed, before the ink had even dried on your intake forms. It was one of the last jobs left—nobody wanted it. Most inmates scrambled for the kitchen (extra food), or the library (peace and quiet, maybe a little dignity). Laundry, though? That was bottom of the barrel. Grunt work. Lifting, scrubbing, folding, hauling. All day on your feet, back screaming, hands stinging from bleach and constant friction.

And still, you considered it a win.

The room was big, at least by prison standards—concrete floors, exposed pipes overhead, and rows of industrial washing machines the size of small cars. They clanged and rattled violently as they spun, shaking the floor and making conversation nearly impossible, which suited you just fine. Giant wheeled bins overflowed with orange jumpsuits, socks stiff with dried sweat, towels that looked like they'd been dragged through a sewer. Sorting them was mindless work—sort by color, by smell, by how likely they were to fall apart in the wash. Rinse. Repeat. Literally.

Your shirt clung to your back, soaked through. Your shoulders burned with every load you dragged from machine to dryer. Your fingers were cracked and red from wringing out piles of soaked fabric. But there was space. There was movement. There was a task to keep your brain occupied.

And, most importantly, there was no Grayson.

Your cellmate hadn't said a single word to you in a week. Not a greeting. Not a threat. Not a grunt of acknowledgment. Just... nothing. He existed in that cell like a shadow pinned to the corner. Silent. Unblinking. When you spoke, he didn't answer. When you coughed, he didn't flinch. You weren't even sure if he noticed you most of the time. It was like living with a mannequin someone had carved from stone.

At night, it got worse. You'd lie on your bunk and glance over to find him sitting upright, staring at the far wall. Eyes half-shut, maybe resting, but never fully asleep. Always alert. Always still. The man never twitched, never turned over, never made a sound. Like he was wired to stay on watch, even when the world around him went still.

That kind of silence? It wasn't peaceful. It was oppressive.

So yeah—folding underwear in a stinking hellhole for eight hours a day felt like a goddamn vacation.

In the laundry room, you had noise—clanging, hissing, grinding, rumbling machines that made it impossible to think too long or too hard. You had motion—tasks to finish, bins to move, towels to fold. You had space. You weren't being watched. Judged. Weighed and measured by a man who hadn't spoken to you but somehow still made you feel small every time he looked your way.

Here, in this sweltering box of sweat and steam, you could just be a body doing a job. No past, no mistakes, no ex-boyfriends, no cellmates with haunted eyes.

Just heat. Just noise.

And for now, that was enough.

You were working alongside Cruz—a rail-thin guy with hollow cheeks and tattoos that looked like they'd been scratched into his skin with a pen and a needle. He never talked. Just grunted now and then, more to himself than anyone else. You didn't mind. You'd grown to like the quiet between you. He folded fast, moved with practiced efficiency, and never asked questions.

A guard stood by the door. Mid-forties, heavyset, with eyes that looked half-asleep under his buzzed haircut. He wasn't watching you so much as trying not to care. Arms crossed. Slouched. Counting the minutes until his shift ended. He hadn't spoken in over an hour. You hadn't either.

For once, the silence wasn't heavy. It felt... peaceful. Like the room was its own little bubble, sealed off from the rest of the prison.

Then you heard it.

A sharp whistle. Clean. Controlled. Echoing off the tiled walls like a knife clinking against glass.

Your head snapped up.

Cruz froze mid-fold. You exchanged a glance, brief but sharp. You could see the tension rise in his shoulders. That whistle hadn't been random. It was a signal.

The guard straightened. His posture shifted just slightly—shoulders up, eyes suddenly focused. He looked at the door, nodded to himself, and then... walked out. No warning. No radio call. No command. He didn't even look back.

Just turned, opened the door, and disappeared into the hallway like he'd never been there at all.

Your gut twisted.

Then they walked in.

Kang came first, his swagger slow and deliberate, the way someone walked when they were sure no one could touch them. His jumpsuit hung open halfway, sleeves tied around his waist like he was too relaxed to care about protocol. Behind him came his two usual shadows—huge, mean, built like failed linebackers. One of them had a split lip that never seemed to heal. The other had a shaved head and a tattoo on his neck that looked like a noose.

The door slammed shut behind them with a hollow clank that echoed all the way through your chest.

Your heart sank.

You already knew this wasn't a chat. They hadn't come here to scare you. That part had already passed.

Cruz didn't say a word. Didn't ask what was going on or if you were okay. He just wiped his hands on the thighs of his pants, walked around the folding table, and slipped past them like he wasn't even there. Like this was choreography. Like this had all been planned and he'd practiced his exit.

No eye contact. No hesitation.

And then it was just you.

Standing in the middle of the room. Hands wet from handling clothes. Shirt stuck to your back. The sweat between your shoulder blades now cold. Piles of dirty jumpsuits boxed you in like low, fabric-covered walls. The machines kept groaning, kept spinning, like they couldn't care less about the shift in air, the building tension, the inevitability of what was coming.

Kang stepped closer. That grin on his face again—casual, slow-spreading, cruel in its patience.

No words yet.

Just that smile.

And you knew, with a certainty that hit like ice in your veins: You were completely, absolutely alone.

The silence in the room wasn't natural. It didn't feel empty—it felt charged. Like a live wire had been strung through the air, humming just beneath your skin. Your heartbeat was too loud in your ears, thudding hard, fast, like it knew time was running out.

You started doing the math in your head—how many steps to the door, how far they'd have to move to cut you off, what you could use in here as a weapon. Nothing promising. Nothing that ended with you walking out of the room unscathed.

They hadn't rushed you. That was worse. They were still, deliberate, watching you with the patience of men who enjoyed dragging things out. Kang stood at the front, relaxed, loose-limbed, like this was all a game and he already knew the outcome. His two boys flanked him like shadows—silent, unmoving, faces unreadable. One cracked his neck. The other smiled, just barely.

You scanned the room again.

No help. No cameras. No corners to hide in.

The folding tables were bolted to the floor, the carts too heavy to push quickly. Wet clothes filled every bin—useless. The only things within reach were towels, shirts, and socks that smelled like mildew and stale body odor. There was no guard. No Cruz. No one sticking their head in to check on you.

No witnesses.

Maybe if you moved fast, you could sidestep them. Get to the door, pound on it, scream. But that would mean turning your back. You'd be giving them a clean shot at your spine before your foot even hit the floor.

And you weren't naïve. You weren't strong. You weren't built for this. You were wiry, sure, but that meant nothing against guys who looked like they bench-pressed concrete for fun. The kind of men whose knuckles were scarred from too many fights, whose eyes didn't blink when fists flew.

You were fast. You had a mouth. Neither of those things would save you here.

Your fingers curled into fists without you telling them to. Not because you thought you could win. But because there was no other choice. It was instinct. Cornered animal shit. If this was going down, you weren't going to make it easy for them.

Your pulse spiked again.

Kang moved without warning—no glare, no wind-up, just a blur of motion and then crack. The sound echoed off the concrete walls like a gunshot, sharp and brutal in the stale air. Fire bloomed across your cheekbone. Your head snapped sideways with the force of the slap, and your knees buckled, legs giving out like someone had cut your strings. You hit the floor hard, palms scraping raw against the rough concrete as you caught yourself.

There was no time to breathe. No time to think.

Two sets of hands grabbed you—thick, callused, fingers digging into your arms like meat hooks. They jerked you upright with zero effort, your boots scraping across the floor. You tried to twist, to pull free on instinct, but it was useless. They held you wide and exposed, your arms stretched out like you were on a goddamn cross. Their grips were iron. You were nothing but a rag doll in their fists.

Kang stepped in.

Not fast. Not angry. Just... calm. Collected. His face was blank, like he was checking a box on a to-do list. He moved into your space with the quiet confidence of someone who never had to raise his voice to get what he wanted. That slap? It hadn't been punishment. It had been punctuation. A statement.

He tilted his head, eyes scanning your face. His expression was almost lazy, like you were a stain he'd been meaning to wipe off the wall for a while.

"I run this place," he said. His voice was low, smooth, practiced—like he'd given this speech before. "Not the warden. Not the guards. Me."

He took a step closer. The heat of his body was sudden and suffocating. His breath smelled like cafeteria coffee and old garlic. You could see the fine sheen of sweat along his hairline.

"When I want something," he said, "I take it. Food. Respect. Space. Doesn't matter."

His eyes flicked down to your mouth, then back to your eyes. "You don't tell me no. Not ever."

You clenched your jaw. Tried to breathe through your nose, to stop your hands from shaking, but your pulse was a drumbeat in your ears. You knew what was coming next. Everyone did. Kang didn't threaten. He demonstrated. Pain was his language, and you'd just signed up for a private lesson.

He reached toward your face again.

And then—the door creaked open.

It wasn't loud. But it cut through everything.

All four of you froze.

The machine noise faded into the background. Time stopped, suspended on that creak of rusted hinges and the faint squeak of rubber soles.

In the doorway stood Grayson.

Framed by the flickering light of the hallway, dressed in his gray work shirt, sleeves rolled up to his forearms. His posture was casual—almost too casual. Hands loose at his sides, legs slightly apart, like he'd just happened to walk in at the exact wrong time. Or maybe the exact right one.

His eyes moved slowly across the room. Took in Kang. The goons. You, held like an offering. His expression didn't change. No surprise. No concern. Just that unreadable look he always wore, like he was scanning a puzzle and hadn't yet decided if he was interested in solving it.

He didn't speak.

Didn't have to.

The effect was immediate. Subtle, but real.

The grip on your arms slackened, just slightly. Enough for you to feel it. The weight shifted behind you. Kang's posture didn't break, but something in his shoulders went taut. You didn't need to see his face to know he hadn't planned for this. And that he didn't like variables.

Still, no one moved until Grayson stepped into the room with a slow, deliberate calm, each movement quiet but purposeful—like a wolf entering unfamiliar territory, already calculating every exit, every angle. His eyes didn't flicker. Didn't scan. They locked straight onto Kang and stayed there, unwavering. His voice, when it came, wasn't loud. But it sliced clean through the thick air like a razor.

"Let him go."

No shouting. No threats. Just four words, spoken with the kind of authority that didn't need volume to be heard. There was no plea in his tone. No uncertainty. It was a command, plain and final—like he was stating the obvious, and the rest of the room was just waiting to catch up.

Kang turned his head slowly, pivoting toward Grayson with a deliberate laziness, the kind that said I don't take orders from anyone. His smirk curled wider, sharp with amusement, but his eyes had gone colder, narrower.

"Well, well," he said, drawing the words out like taffy. "The silent bunkmate speaks."

He gave Grayson a once-over, casual on the surface, but you could see the tension behind his smile—the calculation. The pause as his mind worked, trying to figure out if this was posturing, bluff, or something else entirely.

His two goons didn't move. But their grips on you changed. It was subtle, but you felt it—uncertainty in their hands, the beginning of hesitation. Their fingers twitched like they were waiting for new orders. You were still trapped between them, arms pinned, but now the pressure had eased, just slightly. Enough to know they weren't so sure anymore.

Grayson didn't respond. Didn't blink. He stood there, loose but grounded, like a stone dropped in the middle of the room—immovable. His expression didn't change, and somehow, that made it worse. He wasn't trying to intimidate Kang. He wasn't trying anything. He was just watching. Waiting. Not out of fear, but out of restraint.

It was quiet. Tense.

The kind of silence where even the machines in the background seemed to hold their breath.

Then: footsteps in the hallway. Slow. Heavy.

The guard reappeared, sauntering back in with a wad of gum in his mouth and a face that said he hadn't seen—or cared about—a single thing. He didn't ask what was happening. Didn't scold or intervene. Just leaned against the doorframe, scanned the room once, and let his eyes settle on Kang.

A single nod.

Nothing more.

But it was enough.

Kang clicked his tongue in irritation, barely masking his frustration, and took a slow step back. "Another time, then," he muttered, voice low and clipped.

The moment his weight shifted, the hands on your arms released. Just like that. Like someone had pulled the plug on a machine. Your legs wobbled beneath you, the blood rushing back through your muscles like static. You stumbled but caught yourself, knees bending just enough to avoid collapsing again.

Kang didn't look at you as he passed. His smirk was back, but thinner now. Hollow. Performed.

As he brushed past Grayson, there was a flicker—just a beat—where something unspoken passed between them. No words. No challenge. Just acknowledgment. The kind of look that says, We're not done.

And then they were gone.

The door swung closed behind them with a dull, mechanical clunk.

The room was still spinning slightly. Your cheek throbbed with every beat of your heart, a deep, stinging heat settling under your skin. Your hands were shaking, though you didn't notice until you tried to wipe your face.

Grayson was still there.

Still silent.

He looked at you for a long second—expression unreadable, face set like it had been carved out of stone.

Then, without a word, he turned and walked back into the hallway. No nod. No check-in. No acknowledgment that he'd just stopped something from going very, very bad.

But you felt it.

Something had shifted.

Kang had walked in to remind everyone of the rules.

Grayson had just rewritten them.

That night, the cell was colder than usual. The kind of cold that crawled into your bones and stayed there, slow and deliberate. You lay flat on your bunk, arms at your sides, staring up at the cracked ceiling where the concrete spiderwebbed from years of stress and neglect. Outside the narrow window, the yard lights cast dim streaks across the walls, long shadows that moved with the occasional passing guard. The rest of the cell was dark, quiet. Too quiet.

Your cheek throbbed with a deep, pulsing ache. Swollen. Tender. Every time your head shifted against the thin prison pillow, the pain flared back up—Kang's signature, branded onto your skin without even breaking it. A reminder that he wasn't finished with you. Not by a long shot.

You didn't move when the cell door opened with its usual mechanical groan. You just kept staring up, eyes unfocused, waiting.

Grayson stepped inside without a word. No hesitation. No glance in your direction. He moved like he always did—silent, efficient, like the space belonged to him and you were just borrowing it. He went straight to the sink, pulled a towel off the rack, and turned his back to you.

Then, without looking, he tossed something onto your chest. A small plastic-wrapped rectangle. Cold.

You blinked, startled, then looked down. An ice pack. Already chilled. The kind they handed out in medical for sprains, bruises, maybe worse.

"I convinced the nurse," he said, voice flat as ever, like he was commenting on the weather. "Told her it was for me."

He didn't wait for thanks. Didn't ask how you were. He just sank down onto his bunk, elbows on his knees, fingers laced loosely, eyes on the floor like this was just another night.

You pressed the ice to your cheek. The sting hit first—sharp, biting—but it faded quickly into a dull numbness that took the edge off the pain. You winced, but you didn't say anything. Part of you wanted to thank him, but the words wouldn't come. Not just because of the pain. Because you didn't trust it. Grayson didn't do favors. He moved with purpose. He chose silence like a weapon. Whatever this was, it wasn't kindness.

After a moment, he spoke again—still staring at the floor.

"Kang's not going to let this go."

You turned your head slightly, the crinkle of the plastic pack breaking the quiet. "Figured."

Grayson nodded once. A slow, deliberate motion. "He doesn't like being challenged. Not in public. Not anywhere. That little stunt in the laundry room? That wasn't just about you. That was about his reputation. You embarrassed him. Made him look weak."

You didn't respond. You didn't need to.

"He'll come at you again," Grayson said. "Sooner. Harder. Maybe not with fists next time. Maybe with something worse."

Your fingers tightened around the ice pack. You could already feel the bruise setting in under your skin.

"But not you," you said, turning your gaze toward him. "He doesn't touch you. Doesn't even look at you twice."

Grayson's jaw flexed. A faint, imperceptible shift in his expression. His eyes lifted slowly to meet yours, sharp and focused, like you'd just asked a question with more weight than you realized.

"There's a reason for that," he said, quiet but heavy.

He didn't offer more. No backstory. No threats. Just a fact, dropped into the air between you like a stone in still water.

The silence stretched. Long enough to feel uncomfortable. Long enough to realize he was sizing you up—again. Reading your face, your posture, your pain. And then, without ceremony, he said:

"I'll keep Kang off you."

Like he was offering to loan you a book instead of rewriting your entire survival plan. "You'll be left alone. No more looking over your shoulder, no more counting footsteps outside your cell at night."

You stayed silent, the ice pack cold against your cheek, its edges beginning to soften with body heat. The dull ache in your face was still there, throbbing just beneath the surface, but the shock of what he was saying cut through it like glass.

Then he added—clear, calm, deliberate:

"In exchange for sex. Consensual. No games. No power plays. Just the real thing."

The sentence dropped like a steel door slamming shut. Final. Inescapable.

Your grip on the ice pack didn't tighten, but your breath did—held for just a second too long before you forced it out through your nose. Inside, your brain kicked into gear, scrambling to catch up. You'd heard things. Stories. Deals. Quiet arrangements. But this—coming from him—this wasn't what you expected.

Not from the guy who barely spoke, who moved through the prison like a ghost no one dared touch. Not from the man who hadn't so much as looked your way for a week, and then stepped in like some grim-faced deus ex machina just when Kang's fist was ready to follow his slap.

You didn't let your reaction show. Not here. Not now. Subtle was survival. Everything else was weakness.

Slowly, you lowered the ice pack and met his gaze.

He wasn't smirking. He wasn't taunting. There was no predatory glint in his eye, no sadistic edge. Just that same unshakable calm, that careful calculation. He wasn't trying to shock you. He was stating a fact. An equation, plain and simple.

He'd run the numbers.

This was the solution.

You swallowed once, quietly. "That's... direct," you said, your voice steady, even though your pulse had started to spike in your throat.

A faint flicker of something moved across his face—maybe a smile, maybe not. It was gone too fast to be sure. "Figured you'd respect that more than bullshit."

You didn't respond right away. You kept your breathing even, your expression neutral, but inside your thoughts were tearing in five different directions. Part of you felt insulted. Part of you was curious. Part of you just didn't know what the hell to feel. He hadn't threatened you. He hadn't cornered you. But he'd still pushed the air out of the room with a single sentence.

You looked at him, really looked—trying to find the angle. Because there was always an angle. You'd learned that fast in this place. Trust was just another word for "what's the catch?"

But Grayson... he just waited.

Like he had all the time in the world.

Like he knew you were going to weigh it.

And like he already knew which way you'd tip.

He said it the way someone might suggest a trade—cigarettes for soup. Calm. Logical. Like he'd already weighed the terms and filed them away in some internal ledger.

At first, all you could do was sit with it. Let it rattle around in your chest.

It wasn't shock, not exactly. You weren't naïve. You'd seen the system behind the system—the quiet transactions that ran this place. Protection had a price. Affection had a currency. Sex was often part of the bargain, sometimes bartered, sometimes taken. No one talked about it in the open, but everyone knew.

What did catch you off guard was the source.

Grayson.

The man who barely spoke. Who watched the room like a hawk and moved through the prison like he wasn't part of it. Who never smiled, never postured, never tried to make friends—or enemies. He was a ghost with weight, and somehow that made him more dangerous than the loudest guys in the yard.

You'd spent nights wondering what his angle was. If he even had one. And now here it was. Laid bare. Simple. Blunt.

And somehow... clean.

Your instinct was to recoil—but only for a second.

Then you started thinking.

You'd already made a mistake with Kang. Not the choice itself, but the visibility of it. Everyone saw you stand up to him. And now? That bruise on your cheek wasn't just swelling—it was a warning. A message. An open invitation.

Kang wouldn't forget. And he definitely wouldn't forgive.

You could try to bluff. Act crazy. Pick a fight. Keep a sharpened toothbrush under your mattress and pray you saw it coming next time. But deep down, you knew: you weren't built for that war. You were smart, fast, sharp with your words—but that only got you so far when the wolves started circling.

So you turned your head. Just enough to look at Grayson.

He was still sitting there—motionless. Silent. Watching you with those dark eyes that didn't blink. Didn't push. Didn't plead.

And damn it, he was beautiful.

Not soft, not romantic—but raw. Lean muscle and clean lines. Tension in every inch of his body, like he was always ready to spring. That kind of strength that didn't shout, but hummed beneath the surface. His skin glistened faintly from the heat. Hair a little messy. Jaw clenched in that permanent neutral.

And yet, his expression didn't carry lust or pressure. It carried... certainty. He'd said what he wanted. Now he was waiting.

The power wasn't in his muscles. It was in his patience.

You shifted the ice pack in your hand, feeling it begin to melt. The chill slipping down your wrist.

This wasn't about desperation. It wasn't coercion.

It was an offer.

No strings, no threats. Just a choice.

And maybe that's what threw you most of all—because in a place where choices were rare, this one was real. Yours.

You weren't sure how you felt about it. Not yet. Part of you bristled. Another part—the tired, scared part—considered it for what it really was: a lifeline wrapped in something that, under different circumstances, you might have even wanted.

And sitting in the dim cell light, your face bruised and body aching, you realized something simple and undeniable.

You were considering it.

You slowly pulled the ice pack from your cheek and placed it on the edge of the bunk, fingers lingering on it a moment longer than necessary. The skin still throbbed, but the cold had taken the edge off. You exhaled, long and steady, then lifted your eyes to meet his.

Grayson hadn't looked away. His expression was the same—still, focused, unreadable. But there was something in the quiet way he watched you, something that wasn't demand or hunger. It was patience. Restraint. Like he was giving you all the space you needed to decide.

And you had decided.

"Alright," you said quietly. "I'm in."

His reaction was subtle—barely more than a shift. A slight lift in his chin. A faint ease in the way his shoulders dropped half an inch. No smile, no gloating. Just that quiet, settled energy, like something had clicked into place for him and he didn't need to announce it. He just knew.

He didn't move. Didn't speak right away. Let the weight of your answer settle into the room.

You swallowed once, nerves fluttering low in your stomach. Not regret—just uncertainty. This was new territory, and you were stepping into it without a map.

"So..." you said, your voice a little rougher now, not quite sure how to phrase it. "How does this work? What do you want me to do?"

Grayson's head tilted slightly. Not in judgment—more like he was giving you his full attention.

You kept going, half-serious, half-deflecting. "Do I just lie there? Do whatever you say? Not touch you? Just... shut up and take it?"

The sarcasm was there, but it didn't quite mask the question underneath. You were still feeling the edges of what this was—what it could be. You didn't want to feel owned. You didn't want to feel used. You just didn't know what he wanted from you... or what you were even willing to give.

He stood then.

Not abruptly. Not to intimidate. Just stood, calm and steady, and stepped across the narrow space between your bunks. It only took two strides in a cell that small, but it felt bigger in the moment. You stayed seated, but your body tensed slightly, every nerve awake.

He didn't reach for you. He didn't tower. He simply stood close enough for you to feel him—his presence, his heat. And when he spoke, his voice was low and measured, the same steady cadence as always, but heavier now. Intentional.

"I don't want you passive."

That alone made you blink. It wasn't what you expected—not from a man who had the power to demand anything.

"This isn't about control," he said. "It's not about taking something you don't want to give."

He paused, eyes locked with yours, and his tone didn't waver.

"You're not just a body. And I'm not some caged animal looking to use you."

It hit harder than you expected—because it wasn't just reassurance. It was respect. In this place, that was rarer than anything.

You didn't look away.

"Touching's fine. Wanted, actually," he added, softer now, but not uncertain. "I want you in it. Real. Responsive. Not because you owe me, but because you want to."

You felt that—deep in your gut.

He was giving you something more than protection. He was giving you a line you didn't have to cross. He was giving you choice in a place that had stripped almost all of it away.

For the first time since Kang cornered you in the laundry room, the weight pressing down on your chest started to ease. Not vanish. But loosen. Just enough to let you breathe.

You looked up at him, heart thudding against your ribs, voice low and steady—though the tension threading through it betrayed the anticipation running under your skin.

"So... when does this deal start?" You asked him.

Grayson didn't answer. Not out loud.

He moved instead—slow, smooth, not a wasted motion. He leaned in, his presence surrounding you before he even touched you. His hand braced lightly on the wall just above your shoulder, not trapping, but claiming space. His breath reached your skin before his mouth did—warm, steady, close enough to make your own catch in your throat.

Then his lips touched your neck.

Not rushed. Not rough. Just a brush—barely there, but enough to make your skin spark under the contact. He moved deliberately, kissing the line just beneath your jaw with a quiet confidence, like he knew the map of your body without ever having to ask for directions. He wasn't fumbling. He wasn't testing. He knew.

You let out a breath—soft, shaky—more reaction than choice.

Goddamn.

It wasn't just that he was good. It was the control. The restraint. The way he didn't need to push because every movement felt earned. Like he'd been waiting for the exact right moment to act and now that it was here, he wasn't going to waste a second.

Your body betrayed you almost immediately. Your head tilted to the side, exposing your throat, giving him more without thinking. It didn't feel like surrender. It felt like instinct.

Your hands moved without command—up his chest first, fingertips brushing the thin cotton of his shirt. Solid. Tense. He wasn't flexing, but the definition was there, unmistakable. Strength built from routine, from discipline. You slid your hands lower, slow, feeling the faint ridges of his abdomen shift under your palm with each breath he took.

And then—lower.

You felt him. Already hardening. The heat of him pressed behind coarse fabric, thick and undeniable beneath your fingers. Your hand paused there, resting lightly, the reality of it grounding you in this moment in a way nothing else could.

Grayson exhaled—low, quiet, controlled. A sound you wouldn't have noticed unless you were this close. But it was enough. Enough to confirm this wasn't just physical for him. He felt it too. The charge. The gravity.

Still, he didn't push. Didn't grab. Just kept his mouth on your neck, his lips dragging slowly along your skin like he had all the time in the world.

And in this brutal, suffocating place where control was currency and vulnerability could get you killed... there was something disarming about the way he held both and still let you lead.

You let your hand curl slightly against him. Felt the response, the subtle twitch, the tension roll through his body like a wave he didn't show on his face.

This was real. Immediate. Intimate in a way that had nothing to do with romance and everything to do with survival, desire, and the rare luxury of choice.

And as Grayson's mouth moved lower, dragging along your collarbone, your fingers still curled against him, one thought floated through your mind—sharp and clear:

Yeah... this deal might just work.

Grayson then he pulled back—not fast, not hesitant, but with a deliberate sort of calm. Like he'd decided the pace and wasn't going to let anything rush it. Not even you.

Without saying a word, he reached down, grabbed the hem of his shirt, and pulled it over his head in one smooth, fluid motion. The fabric slid up and off, and then it was just him—bare from the waist up under the stark overhead light. And for a moment, all you could do was look.

He was exactly what you'd imagined—only better.

His body was a blueprint of quiet strength. Not bulky, not showy, just carved from repetition and necessity. Lean muscle that wrapped around his torso in clean, defined lines, as if every inch of him had a job and no part of him was wasted. His chest was firm, his stomach tight and flat, each ridge of his abdomen catching the light like they'd been sculpted in concrete. No ink. No flash. No need to prove anything.

Just him.

Raw. Clean. Focused.

You barely had time to process it before his hands were on you. And when they were—God, they were careful. His fingers slid under the hem of your shirt and lifted it over your head with a gentleness that felt almost surreal in contrast to the hardness of the space around you. There was no grab, no jerk. Just patience. Precision. He moved like he was unwrapping something rare, and he didn't want to miss a single second.

When the fabric cleared your skin, the chill of the air rushed in fast and sharp, dancing across your ribs, your shoulders, your neck. It made your breath hitch. Made everything inside you light up.

Then he hooked his arms under your thighs and lifted you like it was nothing.

Your body reacted before your mind could catch up—legs instinctively wrapping around his hips, hands bracing on his shoulders. His grip was strong, firm, but not harsh. Your back hit the wall with a thud softened by the hard plane of his chest pressing into you. The cold of the concrete kissed your spine, but the heat of him overwhelmed it—his body flush against yours, radiating warmth that seemed to sink into your skin.

His face was right there.

Close.

Too close.

His lips hovered a breath above yours, and you could feel everything—his exhale, the slow rise and fall of his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your palms. He didn't move. Didn't close the space. He just waited, suspended in the moment, so close it made your skin ache.

And then, finally, his voice came—low, rough-edged but soft.

"Is kissing okay?"

The question slid over your skin like silk, and it hit harder than anything else he'd done. Not because of the words—but because of what was behind them. The restraint. The awareness. The choice.

Even now, with your body wrapped around his, with heat rolling off both of you like fire pressed between steel, he was still asking. Still making sure. Still giving you the space to say no.

That shouldn't have made your pulse jump the way it did.

But it did.

Because here, in a place where everything was taken, he was offering.

And the answer was already rising in your throat, warm and breathless, your lips brushing his as you whispered it.

"Yes."

You weren't prepared for the softness.

Grayson, the man who moved like a blade in a sheath—controlled, silent, always coiled—had never once given the impression that gentleness lived anywhere inside him. He existed in sharp lines and quiet authority, the kind of presence that warned people without a single word. In Gotham State, that was survival. That was currency. And you'd assumed, understandably, that if he ever touched you, it would feel like possession. Like dominance.

But now, with your back pressed to cold concrete and your body caged between his and the wall, what you felt was something else entirely.

His breath was warm against your lips. His arms held you steady, his strength obvious—but unused. He didn't press forward. He didn't claim. He just waited, suspended in that breath of space between decision and action.

He could've done anything in that moment. You'd already said yes. The deal was made. There was no performance left to put on, no power struggle to win.

And still—he waited for you.

That undid you more than any aggressive advance ever could've. Because in a place where most people only took, he was offering. Quietly. Patiently.

Your hands slid up his shoulders, anchoring yourself to something solid. Your fingers curled into the firm shape of him, skin warm under your touch, the tension in his muscles humming just below the surface. You were steadying yourself, but also learning him—tracing the lines of someone who'd spent years being unapproachable.

You gave a small nod.

Barely anything.

But it was enough.

His lips met yours.

And everything else fell away.

The kiss wasn't hungry. It wasn't rushed or desperate. It was measured. Intentional. The same way he moved, the same way he spoke—every motion deliberate, like he'd thought it through before he did it. His mouth brushed yours, then deepened the kiss slowly, pulling you in without overwhelming. It wasn't the kiss of a man used to getting what he wanted—it was the kiss of someone who knew the value of patience. Who didn't take—he drew you in.

His hands stayed locked under your thighs, holding you firm, grounded. You were suspended there, between his strength and the wall, but you didn't feel trapped. You felt held. The tension in your body, the one you didn't even know you'd been carrying, began to unravel. It started in your chest and rippled outward—through your fingertips, into your breath, into the way your body softened into his.

Your mouth moved with his, slow at first, then with growing need. But the need wasn't for escape or dominance. It was for connection. For something human in a place that thrived on the absence of it.

You felt yourself give in—not because you were expected to, but because in that moment, you wanted to. The pressure, the fear, the fight you'd been clutching to in your gut like armor—it all cracked under the warmth of that kiss. You let it.

Time stopped meaning anything. The cell, the cold wall, the ever-present buzz of prison noise outside the door—they disappeared. It was just the two of you, suspended in heat and stillness, your heart beating fast against his chest and his breath breaking softly against your lips.

You didn't know what this meant.

You didn't know what it would turn into.

But for now, with Grayson's lips against yours and something honest threading between your bodies, you let go of the questions.

You let yourself feel it.

And for the first time since walking into Gotham State, you didn't feel afraid.

Suddenly, a soft moan slipped from your lips before you even realized it—quiet, breathy, but thick with heat. The sound seemed to ignite something in Grayson. His body pressed harder into yours, his hips rolling forward with slow, deliberate pressure that left no question about how badly he wanted you. The friction sent a sharp jolt through you—skin to skin in places, fabric between you in others, but nothing close to a barrier.

You could feel everything.

He was hard against you—thick, insistent, grinding in just the right way. The pressure wasn't rushed. It was controlled, like he was savoring every inch of contact, letting it build between you. Every slow rock of his hips made your pulse race faster, the tension curling low in your stomach, hot and tight.

Then his mouth left yours.

His lips trailed down along your jaw, kissing softly at first, then lower—nuzzling into the sensitive skin of your neck. His breath was hot against you, a low exhale brushing across your skin right before his mouth opened and he latched on, sucking lightly.

You gasped—eyes fluttering shut, head tipping back to give him more access. He didn't waste it.

His tongue flicked across your skin, slow and precise, teasing before he pulled you between his lips again. He sucked with a rhythm—measured, maddening—each pull of his mouth sending little shocks of pleasure radiating down your spine. You felt his stubble scrape faintly against your neck, rough and grounding, a contrast to the heat building inside you.

And all the while, his hips kept moving.

Slow. Grinding. Deliberate.

The tension building where your bodies met had you trembling slightly, your breath catching every time he shifted just right. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, gripping tight, anchoring yourself to something solid as your nerves sparked beneath your skin. You weren't thinking anymore. You were feeling. Reacting. Leaning into every brush of his lips, every thrust of his hips.

It was overwhelming.

The heat. The pressure. The way your bodies fit together like you'd done this before, like you belonged there—against that wall, in his arms, surrounded by cold concrete and the kind of intensity that made the whole world fall away.

You'd expected this to be physical. Transactional. Something raw and efficient—a trade of protection for sex, stripped of emotion, clean in its purpose.

But this?

This wasn't clean. This wasn't distant.

This was intimate.

Every kiss, every grind, every breath shared between you blurred the lines further. It was fast becoming something else—something dangerous, something real.

Then Grayson's hands slid beneath your thighs again, firm and steady, but this time there was a shift in intention. He wasn't lifting—you felt it immediately. He was lowering you, guiding you down with a careful kind of control, like he didn't want to break the rhythm that had built between you. Your back eased away from the wall, and gravity took over, pulling you into the next part of whatever this was.

He followed your descent the whole way, his hands never leaving you. His palms were warm, anchoring you even as your knees met the cold, unforgiving concrete. The chill bit at your skin—sharp, immediate—but you barely registered it. All your focus was fixed on him. On the rise and fall of his chest, damp with a thin sheen of sweat. On the way his eyes locked onto yours, steady and unreadable except for the heat flickering behind them.

He didn't speak. He didn't have to.

The silence between you was louder than anything words could've added. It pulsed with tension, thick and charged, the air so heavy it felt like it was pushing in on your lungs.

Grayson's hands slipped from your legs as he straightened, towering over you, and reached down to the waistband of his prison-issue pants. You watched, transfixed, as he hooked his thumbs into the elastic and pushed both the pants and boxers down in one fluid motion. The fabric dropped, pooling soundlessly at his feet.

And then he was bare in front of you.

There was no hesitation, no need for show. His cock stood thick and hard, flushed at the tip, the shaft veined and heavy, the weight of it making it twitch subtly as it was freed. The sight of him made your breath catch—sharp and sudden. You'd imagined, sure. Thought about what he might look like under all that control and silence. But seeing it?

It hit different.

He was big—unquestionably. But more than that, there was something commanding about the way he stood there, fully exposed, entirely still. Like he knew what he was offering. Like he trusted you to take it without needing to be told.

Your breath caught as you looked up at him—Grayson standing over you, skin flushed, every line of his body drawn tight with control. His dick hovered just inches from your mouth, thick and pulsing with heat. His chest rose and fell in slow, measured breaths, but his eyes... his eyes told a different story.

There was fire behind them now.

Not wild, not reckless—contained, but alive. A low-burning hunger that simmered just beneath the surface of his usually unreadable expression. He wanted you. Badly. But more than that, he was letting you have this moment. Letting you choose. Still silent. Still still. But utterly focused on you.

You leaned in slowly, deliberately, keeping your gaze locked to his. There was a kind of power in that—knowing he wasn't directing this, knowing he was waiting for you. You wanted him to see it, to feel it: this wasn't submission. This was your decision. Your yes. And you wanted him to understand exactly what that meant.

Your lips parted.

You took him in—just the tip at first. Warm, heavy, the taste of him blooming on your tongue, earthy and unmistakably male. His breath hitched above you, the sound sharp and quiet, but you caught it. His fingers curled slightly at his sides, like he was fighting the instinct to reach for you. That restraint made the heat between you flare.

You drew your tongue around the head in a slow, deliberate circle before easing lower, inch by inch. He was thick—more than you were used to—and your jaw ached as your mouth stretched to accommodate him. But the discomfort faded into sensation, into purpose. It was grounding. Real.

He let out a long, quiet breath. His abs flexed, the muscle twitching beneath the surface as he tried to stay still.

You found your rhythm—slow, deep pulls of your mouth as your hand wrapped around what you couldn't take, stroking in time with every movement. The pressure built with each pass, saliva slicking his skin, heat growing between your legs with every soft sound he didn't mean to make.

You watched him the whole time.

Every clench of his jaw. Every subtle shift of his hips. The way his nostrils flared when your tongue dragged along the underside of him on the way back up. He was still trying to hold it together—still composed, still Grayson—but you could see the edges beginning to fray.

That restraint, the way he gave you space and didn't take—it only made you want more.

You went deeper, slower. Hollowing your cheeks. Tightening your grip. You heard his breath catch again, heard the faintest curse slip past his lips, low and rough.

And that was when it clicked.

This wasn't just about the deal anymore.

This wasn't obligation.

This was something else.

With every bob of your head, every flick of your tongue, you could feel the tension rising in him. The pressure. The effort it took to stay still. And you liked it—knowing you were the one pulling him apart, inch by inch.

The man who didn't bend for anyone...

Was beginning to lose control.

And it was because of you.

Grayson's fingers clenched around the edge of the bunk behind him, knuckles whitening as they curled tight around the cold metal frame. The rigid press of steel against his skin grounded him—barely. His grip was the only thing keeping him tethered, keeping him from sinking completely into the rush of sensation spiraling up through his spine. But you were making it impossible.

Your mouth moved with slow, focused purpose. Every glide of your lips down his cock was smooth, wet, perfectly controlled. You didn't rush. You didn't falter. You knew what you were doing—and worse, you knew what it was doing to him. Your tongue traced sensitive veins, your lips sealed around his dick, the suction just right. Every pass was a tease and a promise all at once.

And your eyes—fuck, your eyes.

Locked on his. Dark with heat. Steady. Unapologetic. There was no submission in your gaze, no fear. Just intention. Confidence. You looked at him like you were daring him to fall apart.

And he was.

Grayson had spent his time in Gotham State like a shadow—quiet, untouchable, locked behind layers of discipline. He never got close. Never entertained the idea of letting anyone in. Survival here depended on that distance, on keeping your needs buried where no one could use them against you.

So when you first walked into his cell, he'd barely glanced your way. Just another body. Another sentence. Another soul trying to disappear.

But then you spoke—sharp, biting, eyes defiant even after being thrown into hell. You didn't shrink. You didn't plead. There was something alive in you. Unbroken.

And it had hooked him from the first second.

He hadn't touched anyone in months. Years, maybe. Inside this place, time was elastic. Weeks bled into each other until need became background noise—something you ignored or turned into rage. Release was rare. Trust, rarer.

But now? Now your mouth was wrapped around him, and all those things he'd buried were clawing their way to the surface.

Every movement of your tongue, every subtle shift of your lips, every sound you made as you took more of him—it built pressure in his core like a fuse inching toward its end. His hips stayed still only because he willed them to. His muscles were tight with restraint, the need to thrust forward—deep, hard—simmering just beneath the surface. But he didn't. Not yet.

Because you were owning this. Guiding it. Controlling it.

And that wrecked him in a way nothing else could.

You were better than he'd expected—better than his most desperate, late-night fantasies. He knew you'd be sharp, knew you'd come into this with something to prove. But this? The way you sucked him in like you were claiming him, the way your hand stroked in time, the little flicks of your tongue that made him curse under his breath?

It was more than just good.

It was devastating.

And he loved it.

Grayson's breath was coming harder now, each inhale deeper than the last, chest rising and falling like he was in a fight—but he wasn't trying to win. Not anymore. He was teetering on the edge, and for once, he didn't want to pull back.

Because for the first time in too long, he wasn't just enduring.

He was feeling—every inch of your mouth, every drag of pleasure, every crack in the wall he'd spent years building.

And the thought hit him hard, almost dizzying:

If this is what it feels like to lose control... maybe it's worth it.

You drew his dick deeper with another slow, deliberate pull of your mouth. His stomach tightened, muscles along his abdomen flexing like cords pulled taut. For a split second, he let his eyes close, not to block anything out, but to feel it more clearly. The warmth of your mouth, the slick glide of your tongue, the tight pull of your lips—it was dragging him toward the edge faster than he'd meant to go.

And he was losing his grip.

He opened his eyes and looked down at you—saw your mouth stretched around him, your jaw working, your eyes still locked to his like you were daring him to let go.

That was all it took.

Something inside him cracked open.

Grayson's hand moved, slow but deliberate, threading through your hair until his palm pressed firm against the back of your head. He didn't force. Not yet. He just held you there—grounded you. The weight of his hand, the way his fingers curled into your hair, sent a message without needing words: you're mine now.

Then he moved.

His hips rolled forward, gentle at first, testing the rhythm. Shallow thrusts, slow and controlled, as he began to guide the motion—his dick slipping deeper, the tip brushing the back of your throat before he eased out again. You adjusted, your lips tightening, your breath coming shallow through your nose as you accepted his pace.

And that—your willingness, your trust—only poured gasoline on the fire under his skin.

His grip in your hair tightened slightly, his rhythm beginning to shift. Less careful. Less composed. The control he'd clung to was unraveling, thread by thread, replaced by something more raw, more real. His thrusts deepened—not brutal, not careless, but charged with heat and hunger. With need.

A groan slipped from him, low and ragged. It rumbled from his chest, unguarded and full. He wasn't just reacting to your mouth anymore—he was surrendering to it.

The bunk behind him creaked as he braced a hand against it, the strain in his shoulders visible, his knuckles white from the force of his grip. The only sounds in the cell were the wet glide of your lips around him, the quiet suck of pressure, and the steady, increasingly broken rhythm of his breathing.

Then your eyes flicked up again.

You looked at him, mouth full, cheeks hollowed, and in that moment, something changed in him.

His gaze darkened. That controlled fire in his eyes flared into something possessive, feral. Not cruel—but intense. Hungry. Like he was seeing you not just as the person on your knees, but as his. Someone who could take him. Who wanted to. Who chose to.

And that made it deeper. Hotter. More than just sex.

This was trust. Power. Desire, tangled together until they couldn't be separated anymore.

His hips snapped forward again, harder now, your throat taking the full length of him. He felt you gag, just a little, and immediately eased up—but you didn't pull away. You held, breathing through it, letting him stay deep for a beat before he withdrew. His fingers stroked the back of your head once before his grip in your hair eased, his fingers slowly unwinding, trailing through the strands like he wasn't quite ready to let go. His chest was rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths, the heat rolling off him in waves. He held your gaze as he pulled you up—one smooth, unhurried motion, like he was savoring every second of bringing you back to your feet.

The second you were upright, he was on you.

His mouth crashed into yours, and the kiss was nothing like before. This one was heat and teeth, deep and messy and full of all the tension that had been coiled between you since the day you stepped into that cell. It was greedy—desperate in a way that made your knees go weak. His tongue slid against yours, taking what he wanted, demanding everything back.

His hands moved like they had a map—roaming down your spine, finding the dip of your back, then gripping your waist tight, pulling your body flush against his. You could feel every inch of him—his chest heaving, the strain in his arms, the hard press of his cock still wet from your mouth.

Then he broke the kiss, panting, lips swollen, eyes dark.

No words. Just movement.

His hands dropped to your waistband and in a single, practiced motion, he tugged your pants and boxers down. The fabric clung briefly to your skin before sliding down your legs and pooling around your ankles, but Grayson didn't give it time to settle—he kicked it aside with his foot, sending it somewhere into the shadows behind you. Gone. Out of the way.

The cold air hit your skin and made you shiver, a rush of sensation climbing your spine. But his body was already there, already pulling you back into heat. His hands returned to your waist—firm, possessive—as he turned you, guiding you toward the wall like he'd done it a hundred times in his head.

You let him.

Your palms braced against the concrete, cool and unforgiving under your skin. You leaned into it, your breath fogging faintly in front of you, chest rising as anticipation clawed its way through your veins.

Behind you, Grayson stepped in close, the warmth of him immediately wrapping around you again. His chest brushed your back, his breath ghosting across the side of your neck. Then you felt it—him—thick and hard, pressing between your cheeks, hot skin against bare skin, no fabric left between you.

One of his hands held your hip, his grip steady, grounding. The other slipped lower, fingers curling around the base of his dick as he guided himself down, the head nudging between your legs—slick, swollen, precise.

He didn't shove. He didn't rush.

He just waited there—lined up, ready—the thick head of him brushing against your hole in slow, deliberate pulses, each movement a promise, each breath a countdown.

The tension was suffocating.

And in that breathless moment, with your body open and aching, the concrete cold beneath your hands and the heat of him poised behind you, it was clear:

He wasn't just going to fuck you.

He was going to claim you.

You felt the first press of Grayson's dick against you—broad, hot, deliberate. He didn't shove. Didn't rush. Just held you there, his hand firm on your hip, anchoring you while he pushed forward with steady, unrelenting pressure. The thick head of his dick eased past the resistance, stretching you slowly, and the sensation was instant—deep, all-consuming.

He was big. You'd known it from before, seen it, felt the weight of him in your mouth—but this was different. This was inside.

Your breath stuttered, body instinctively tensing as the stretch intensified. Your fingers curled against the concrete wall for balance, knuckles whitening. Inch by inch, he sank into you, each movement slow and controlled, like he was trying to give you time to feel every part of him.

Halfway in, he paused.

His chest hovered behind your back, his breath hot against your shoulder. His voice came low—hoarse, threaded with restraint.

"Breathe."

The word skimmed your skin like a touch, and you obeyed. You focused on your inhale, long and shaky, letting it move through your body as you tried to relax around him. The pressure began to shift—still intense, still burning, but now edged with something else. Something that made your stomach tighten and your thighs tremble.

You exhaled. He moved again.

The final push was slow, smooth, deep. He filled you completely, his hips pressing flush to yours, the stretch turning molten as your body yielded. You gasped, not from pain, but from the sheer overwhelming fullness of it. Of him.

Grayson stilled.

One hand remained braced on your hip, the other sliding up to your lower back, fingers spreading wide across your skin to keep you steady. He held you like that—completely still—his cock buried to the hilt, his breathing ragged and uneven behind you.

You could feel it.

Every inch of him. Every beat of his heart pounding through the tension in his muscles.

He was holding himself back.

Then, slowly, he began to move.

The first thrust was shallow, careful—testing. A slow pull out, a gentle slide back in. Your breath caught again, but your body was adjusting now, learning the rhythm, the weight, the heat. He pulled out a little further the second time, then drove back in with more pressure, more hunger. The sound of it echoed—quiet, rhythmic, skin meeting skin in the heavy silence of the cell.

His grip on your hips tightened.

Each thrust grew more certain, more claiming. His control was still there, but it was fraying at the edges. His rhythm quickened—steady, deep, purposeful. Like he was imprinting something with every push of his hips. Like he wasn't just fucking you. He was taking you.

And your body responded.

You pressed back into him, breath hitching with every stroke, chasing the rhythm he was setting. Your knees quivered, your palms flat against the wall for balance, your skin burning with sensation. Each thrust sent a rush of heat curling up your spine, blooming outward through your limbs.

The reasons behind this—survival, protection, need—blurred.

What mattered now was the way he felt inside you. The way he moved—like he couldn't stop himself. Like having you this way was something he'd imagined for too long, and now that he had you, he couldn't get close enough.

Each thrust now came with intention, a growing urgency pulsing through every snap of his hips. What had started as deep, steady motion turned rougher, needier, the pressure mounting with every inch he drove into you. He pushed deeper with each roll of his body, filling you until you felt stretched to your absolute limit—and maybe even a little past it. The sound of him—his skin slapping against yours, the wet drag of each thrust, the ragged rhythm of his breath—filled the concrete cell like a pulse, a beat that matched your racing heart.

You squirmed beneath him, breath catching, your body trying to process the overwhelming sensations. Your fingers scraped along the cold wall, twitching for purchase, trying to find something—anything—to brace against. The pressure inside you was intense, unbearable in the best possible way. You weren't trying to pull away. You were just trying to keep up.

But the second you shifted, the second your hands moved even a little—

Grayson was there.

His free hand swept your wrists back in one fluid motion, fast and smooth, like he'd been waiting for it. Before you could even gasp, he had both of your arms pinned behind you, your wrists locked in one strong hand, the roughness of his palm pressed tight between your shoulder blades and his chest.

You cried out—a sharp, breathy sound, half-surprise, half-desire—as the change in angle sent heat rushing straight to your core. The new position made everything feel sharper. Tighter. More exposed. More his.

Grayson leaned in, his body flush against your back, his voice low and rough in your ear.

"You're not going anywhere."

His breath was hot on your neck. His grip on your wrists firm and unrelenting. And then he thrust.

Hard.

You choked on a moan, your mouth open but no sound escaping, your body jolting forward as he bottomed out inside you with brutal precision. You arched, spine bending, the air knocked from your lungs as pleasure crashed through you like a wave. Your hands flexed uselessly in his grip, pinned tight. He wasn't letting go. He was anchoring you, locking you in place while he took you apart.

Every thrust after that came with purpose.

Not careless, not wild—but focused. He moved like he was memorizing the shape of you, the sounds you made when he hit just the right spot, the way your walls fluttered around him when he pushed too deep, too slow, too good. He groaned—low and guttural—his lips brushing against your shoulder, his breath ragged now, heat radiating off him like fire under your skin.

The wall was cold beneath your chest. The floor hard under your knees. But all of that faded into the background.

There was only him.

Inside you. Around you. Taking and giving in equal measure.

And then his voice came again—right against your ear this time, deep and breathless, tinged with something feral he was barely holding back.

"Just like that."

His words sent another ripple down your spine, your body clenching in response, and you realized you'd stopped thinking about why this started—what it meant.

Now all you could do was feel.

The sound of skin slapping against skin echoed through the tiny cell, rhythmic and relentless—wet, sharp, unmistakably intimate. It bounced off the cold concrete like the walls were holding onto it, amplifying every thrust, every breath, every moan that slipped past your lips no matter how hard you tried to bite them back.

Anyone walking by would hear it.

Hell, anyone on the block would.

And you didn't care. Not even a little.

Grayson had you pinned hard against the wall, one hand locked around your wrists behind your back, the other gripping your hip like he owned it. His chest was slick against your back, his body moving with brutal, focused precision—each thrust deep, controlled, calculated like he wasn't just trying to fuck you—he was studying you. Learning you.

He hit that spot again and your knees buckled slightly, a broken sound catching in your throat as your forehead pressed into the wall. The pleasure was too much—dense and burning, winding through your body like fire in your veins. Every time he pulled back and slammed into you, your breath hitched, your skin jolted with heat, and you sank deeper into the rhythm of him.

It wasn't just good. It was overwhelming.

It was obliterating.

You weren't afraid. You weren't nervous.

You were fucking gone.

And it wasn't because this was some prison-born desperation. No. It was because of him. Grayson fucked like he knew exactly what you needed before you did. Like he'd mapped out every nerve ending, every twitch of your hips, every soft gasp and sharp moan—and was playing your body like a goddamn instrument.

Your ex? Forget it. That was fumbling hands and pretty words. That was heat without depth, desire without gravity. This was different. This was raw, physical, soul-deep. This was someone driving into you like he was erasing something—every bad touch, every cold night, every ache that had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with being unseen.

Grayson saw you.

And now he was taking you—fully, completely—like he'd been waiting for the exact moment when you'd finally let him.

Your head thudded lightly against the wall as he buried himself in you again, hard and deep, a groan tearing out of him that sounded half-possessed. His hips slammed into yours, his grip bruising in the best way, and all you could do was hold on—your body vibrating, melting, tightening around him with every punishing thrust.

And god, it was insane.

Of course it took a prison cell. Of course it took Gotham.

Of course it took getting slapped around by Kang and nearly broken by the system before ending up here—pinned, breathless, fucked half out of your mind by the one man in this hellhole who could handle you.

It should've been a tragedy.

But it felt like deliverance.

Suddenly, Grayson stopped—every muscle in his body going rigid all at once, like someone had thrown a switch.

You were so deep in the rhythm of him, the weight of him, the pulse of pleasure pounding through your body, that it took a full second to register the shift. But then you heard it too.

A sharp crackle—pshhht—followed by low, garbled voices over a walkie-talkie. Codes. Numbers. Instructions. The language of authority, clipped and cold. Then came the unmistakable sound of heavy boots echoing down the concrete corridor. A slow, measured march of guards making their rounds.

Your heart shot into your throat.

Grayson didn't say a word. He didn't have to.

His grip on you tightened—protective, grounding—as he gently eased out, the motion achingly slow, and guided you away from the wall. His hands, which had been so rough seconds ago, now moved with surgical calm. No panic. No wasted motion. Just control.

He navigated the darkness with ease, guiding you across the cell to his bunk with a hand on your lower back. The sheets were rumpled, the scent of sweat and sex still clinging to the air—thick, unmistakable. Outside the cell bars, the overhead floodlights spilled silvery stripes across the floor. It wasn't total darkness, just enough to blur details. Just enough to hide.

He lay down first—on his side, facing the wall—and without hesitation, pulled you down in front of him. Your back pressed to his chest, your legs curled into the shape of his, your skin still flushed and tingling from everything that had come before. His arm slid over your waist, holding you like a shield, like a secret.

Then he slipped back inside you.

You nearly gasped—but bit it back hard, teeth sinking into your lip as his dick pushed in slow and deep, your body already open and greedy for him. The new angle was different—less force, more stretch—but it hit something inside you that made your toes curl against the sheets. It wasn't urgent now. It was deliberate.

A quiet, controlled burn.

He held you flush to him, chest to your back, your bodies locked together like one solid shape beneath the thin blanket. His hips moved in the smallest motions, just enough to keep you full, to keep the fire stoked.

Then—clank.

The cell door rattled as the latch was tested. A flashlight beam cut across the floor—bright, white, and merciless—sweeping over the bunks.

You shut your eyes, breath frozen in your throat, willing your body to stillness even as Grayson kept moving inside you. Barely-there thrusts, slow and subtle. But the pressure was growing again, the friction impossible to ignore. Every pulse of his dick made your insides clench, your core tighten, your heart pound harder.

The light passed over your face. You didn't flinch.

Grayson's breath hovered just behind your ear, hot and slow. He wasn't kissing you—just breathing there. His lips ghosted over your skin like a secret, and somehow that felt more intimate than anything that had come before.

Outside the bars, the guards moved on.

Boots faded down the corridor. The radio static became distant noise. The threat passed—but the tension didn't leave.

Grayson didn't loosen his grip. Didn't pull out.

He just held you tighter.

And kept going.

His body curved perfectly into yours, every inch of him aligned like he'd been shaped for this—for you. His chest was warm and firm at your back, his breath ghosting against the nape of your neck in slow, steady waves. Each thrust into you was deep, precise, measured—like every movement was part of some intimate choreography only he knew. Even with the faint noise of guards still echoing down the corridor, he moved like nothing else existed. No prison. No threat. Just the two of you in this sliver of darkness and heat.

Then his hand slid lower.

You felt the rough drag of his fingertips first, tracing down your stomach with purpose. Then he wrapped his fingers around your dick—warm, solid, confident—and you had to suck in a breath through clenched teeth. The touch jolted through you like a live wire. He didn't hesitate. His grip was just right—firm, not painful—just enough to let you know he was fully in control.

He began to stroke you in perfect rhythm with his hips. Each push inside you was mirrored by the glide of his hand, like his body was reading yours in real time. The synergy was unreal—too perfect. Every part of you was being worked in sync: his dick filling you in slow, relentless waves, his hand coaxing your dick forward with practiced ease, his breath warming your skin in ragged exhales.

You tried to stay quiet. You had to stay quiet.

But your body was unraveling fast.

Pleasure blurred your thoughts at the edges, your nerves on fire, every muscle locked tight in anticipation. His thumb dragged across the most sensitive part of you with maddening precision, over and over again, and your hips twitched forward instinctively, chasing the friction.

Still, his rhythm didn't falter.

He was methodical—focused—stroking you just enough to push you closer, then slowing just enough to hold you there, right on that precipice. It was maddening. Addictive. The pressure was coiling in your core, heat blooming in your gut and spreading outward, your whole body tensing, tightening, needing.

Your breathing turned erratic—shallow and fast, teeth pressed into your lip to keep the sound in. But Grayson felt it. He knew. He adjusted, just barely, and the stroke of his hand picked up—faster now, firmer. His thrusts grew more intense too, still quiet but sharper, each one angled with purpose. Precision. Like he wasn't just chasing your climax—he was crafting it.

You reached back blindly, your hand finding his forearm and gripping tight—needing something solid to hold on to as your body began to tremble under the pressure. The tension built in waves, fast and brutal, spiraling through your spine, into your stomach, burning through your chest like it was ripping you apart from the inside out.

You were there.

Perched on the edge of everything—control, silence, sensation—tipping closer with every stroke, every thrust, every quiet, burning breath from the man wrapped around you.

And there was no going back.

The pressure in your core finally shattered—white-hot and blinding.

A low, broken moan tore out of you, half-smothered against the pillow, the rest caught somewhere deep in your throat, raw and involuntary. Your entire body seized as your orgasm ripped through you in sharp, uncontrollable waves. Your hips jerked forward, muscles locking, then trembling as the cum pulsed out of you, thick and hot between Grayson's fingers.

But he didn't stop.

His hand kept stroking you through it—slow, firm, relentless—dragging every last spasm out of you like he was determined to wring you dry. Your body twitched under his touch, every nerve lit up and blazing, the overstimulation skimming the edge between pleasure and something more intense, more overwhelming. You gasped again, body straining, your back arching off the mattress as the aftershocks rolled through your limbs.

The world around you blurred—the prison, the cold air, the hard cement and steel. It all fell away. All you could hear was the thunder of your heartbeat in your ears and the wet, rhythmic sound of his hand gliding along your spent dick.

Then, as your muscles started to go slack and your breathing began to even out, Grayson shifted behind you.

Still hard. Still deep inside you.

He let out a quiet grunt, low and restrained, as he adjusted his hold, one hand sliding up your torso while the other anchored you by the hip. He moved with focus, but not urgency—like a man who knew exactly what he wanted, and exactly how he planned to take it.

In one smooth, powerful motion, he guided you flat onto your stomach. The sheets were still warm beneath you, damp with sweat and heat, but you barely had time to register it before his weight was on you again—his chest pressed to your back, skin slick, heartbeat fast. His hands skimmed down your sides, large and steady, before settling at your hips, where he gripped and lifted, raising you just enough to give him the angle he wanted.

You barely had time to catch your breath before you felt him again.

The head of his dick nudged back at your ass—slick, thick, still pulsing with need. And then—he pushed in.

You choked on a sharp gasp, your entire body lighting up as he filled you again. The sensation, so soon after your orgasm, was almost too much. But it wasn't pain—it was intensity. Blistering and deep. Your fingers curled into the mattress, jaw clenched as your body tried to keep up with the new onslaught of sensation.

His pace had changed. Gone was the slow, deliberate rhythm.

Now he moved with force. With hunger.

Grayson's hips snapped forward, hard and fast, the slap of his skin against yours loud in the quiet of the cell. He drove into you again and again, each thrust hitting deeper, sharper, the bed creaking beneath the rhythm of his body. It wasn't reckless. It wasn't out of control. It was focused. Primal. A man possessed by need, but still terrifyingly precise.

His grip on your waist tightened, fingers digging into your skin, holding you right where he wanted you—grounded to the bed, to him. Each thrust sent sparks up your spine, your thighs shaking from the overstimulation, your breath catching with every impact.

You couldn't speak.

Could barely breathe.

All you could do was hold on.

Then he leaned down again, the heat of him searing against your back, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

"Still with me?" he growled, voice low and rough, thick with lust and that razor-sharp focus that had never once let up.

You nodded—barely able to move—teeth sinking into the sheets as another helpless moan escaped your lips.

His thrusts came faster now, rougher, each one driving into you with the kind of force that made your breath punch out in soft gasps. You felt it in everything—the tension rippling through his muscles, the bruising grip of his fingers at your hips, the way his breath broke apart against the back of your neck in short, uneven bursts.

He was close.

You could feel it.

His body was fire against yours, sweat slicking the space where your backs touched, the heat of his skin branding yours. He pounded into you harder, deeper, and you could feel every bit of it—your thighs trembling, your spine bowing beneath the force of it.

Then it happened—that telltale shift.

You felt him twitch inside you.

His abs clenched.

His rhythm faltered, stuttered—just for a second.

Then Grayson pulled out fast, sharp, with a hiss of breath gritted between his teeth.

You barely had time to turn your head, to blink, before you felt the first hot pulse of his release hit your lower back—thick, warm, unmistakable. He groaned low, the sound rough and almost broken as his hand wrapped around his dick, jerking himself through it. Thick ropes spilled across your skin, warm and heavy, his chest rising and falling in shallow, trembling waves as he rode out the last of it.

He kept stroking—slower now, riding the final throbs of his orgasm with his forehead tilted down, his breath catching like he was still inside the freefall. His body hovered over yours, the tension slowly leaking from his frame, replaced with the kind of raw stillness that only came after something real.

The air in the cell was thick—heat, sweat, sex. The scent of it clung to your skin, to the sheets, to the very air you pulled into your lungs.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Not because there was nothing to say—just because there was no need to say it.

Grayson's hands slid from your hips, fingers soft now, brushing your skin like an afterthought—like he wasn't ready to let go just yet. He stayed close, his body still pressed lightly to yours, the last of his weight resting against your back as he caught his breath, head bowed, chest still heaving.

And you—body tingling, heart racing, mind blank and full all at once—just lay there.

Feeling every inch of him cooling against your skin.

Feeling everything you'd just done settle into your bones.

The cell was quiet again.

Only the distant sounds of the prison reminded you where you were—metal doors clanking far down the corridor, the occasional echo of voices too muffled to understand, the steady electric buzz of the overhead lights that never quite turned off. The rest of the world had returned, creeping in around the edges of the moment you and Grayson had just carved out of it.

Then you felt him behind you.

Grayson moved with the same calm he always had—efficient, steady, but now slower, like the adrenaline was leaving him too. The mattress dipped slightly as he leaned forward. Then something warm, slightly rough—an old shirt maybe, or a towel that had seen better days—passed gently over your lower back.

You inhaled sharply at the first touch, more from surprise than discomfort.

He was careful.

Wiping away the mess he'd left behind with a tenderness you hadn't expected. There was none of the force from earlier, none of the raw, consuming need. His touch now was quiet. Respectful. Almost reverent. He didn't rush. He made sure you were clean.

You let out a slow breath, tension bleeding from your limbs as your body slowly settled, the last sparks of heat fading into something calmer. Something almost fragile.

When he was done, the mattress shifted again as he stood. You heard the soft rustle of fabric behind you—pants pulled up, a belt being fastened, the subtle pull of cotton sliding over skin. You stayed where you were for a few more seconds, gathering yourself. Then you pushed up onto your elbows, your shoulders tight, your spine giving a dull, satisfying ache. The blanket slid down your back as you rolled onto your side.

Your feet touched the cold floor with a soft slap, grounding you.

You stayed like that for a beat, head bowed, eyes adjusting to the dim light, heart still trying to find a steady rhythm.

Then you looked up.

Grayson stood near his bunk, already halfway dressed. He was pulling his shirt over his head, the motion smooth, practiced. His back flexed with the effort, every line of him lean and strong, carved by habit and survival. When the fabric settled into place, he glanced over at you—just once.

His face was unreadable again.

Whatever fire had burned in him minutes ago was tucked away, folded back into the quiet calm he wore like armor. His breathing had evened out. His jaw was tight. But something in his eyes lingered—something he didn't say, didn't show fully, but couldn't quite hide either.

There was no awkwardness in him. No regret. He wasn't avoiding your gaze, and he wasn't searching it either.

Just existing in that space between what had happened and what it meant.

You ran a hand through your hair, your fingers tangling for a second before falling away. You thought about speaking—but the words didn't come. You didn't know what to say that wouldn't feel too big, or too small.

So you didn't say anything.

Neither did he.

You stood up slowly, muscles still loose, legs shaky with that strange, post-release ache—the kind that lingers in your bones long after your body's stopped moving. The chill in the cell kissed your bare skin, raising goosebumps along your arms and thighs. You bent to grab your underwear from where they'd landed near the edge of the bed, the cool floor biting at the soles of your feet. The fabric felt thin and scratchy as you pulled it back up, the elastic waistband snapping softly into place against your hips.

As you straightened up, still adjusting the band with one hand, Grayson's voice cut through the air.

"Thanks for that."

You turned your head, caught off guard not by the words themselves, but by the way he said them—low, even, casual. Like you'd handed him something small, like you'd shared a cigarette or a joke. Not like you'd just let him bend you over in the dark and fuck you into the mattress until your body forgot how to breathe.

He was fully dressed again, sitting on the edge of his bunk. Elbows on his knees. Spine straight. Watching you. His face had settled back into that unreadable calm you were starting to recognize—not cold, not guarded, just contained. But his eyes gave something away. Not much. Just enough.

There was no smugness in his tone. No self-satisfaction.

Just quiet sincerity.

And that—somehow—hit harder than the sex.

You didn't answer right away. You weren't sure how to answer. Your heart was still beating too fast for words, your mind still trying to sort out what this all meant, if it meant anything at all.

Then he added, "You really won't have to worry about Kang or his boys again. I mean that."

Your gaze locked with his. And this time, there was no question in it.

His voice was steady. Grounded. Like a door slamming shut with finality. Not a threat. Not a boast. Just a promise. Quiet and unshakable.

And somehow, you believed him.

Because something in his tone—the weight, the stillness—said he'd already decided what would happen if anyone so much as looked at you the wrong way.

He wasn't offering protection anymore.

He was giving it.

And whether you'd meant for it to happen or not, something had shifted. Something real. Heavy. Irrevocable.

And now it was yours.

What you didn't know—what no one ever said aloud, not even in whispers—was why Grayson could make a promise like that and mean it. Why just a few words from him could silence the threat of Kang and every man behind him.

It wasn't just about reputation. It wasn't about owing favors, or pulling strings with the right guards. That kind of power could be taken. Challenged. Broken.

What Grayson had... was fear.

Cold. Heavy. Earned fear.

Because Grayson wasn't just respected in Gotham State—he was the reason the worst of them watched where they stepped. The ones who ran gangs, who extorted commissary and blood and loyalty out of the weak—they gave him space. Not because he asked for it. Not because he made threats.

But because they'd seen what happened when someone didn't.

Kang had a crew, sure. He had numbers. He had swagger. But he didn't have the one thing Grayson had buried in the silence behind his eyes: history.

He never raised his voice. Never threw a punch unless it was absolutely necessary. He didn't posture, didn't bark commands, didn't play the dominance game like the rest of them.

Grayson didn't need to.

He was the kind of dangerous that walked quiet and ended things completely.

Because under that steady calm, beneath the silent routines and the unreadable expressions, was a man who had once taken apart a crime empire with his bare hands. Not figuratively. Not through lawyers or backroom deals.

Richard Grayson had dismantled Tony Zucco's empire piece by piece—burned down his warehouses, exposed his smuggling routes, slit the throat of his most trusted lieutenant in front of a room full of witnesses. And when Zucco's daughter tried to run, tried to avenge the family name, Grayson tracked her down, too.

No hesitation. No loose ends.

And then, he vanished behind prison walls—and every name connected to Zucco stopped breathing.

That's what they didn't say in here.

That's why the old-timers didn't look him in the eye.

Why the guards never searched his cell too hard.

Why Kang kept his distance, even when you gave him the perfect excuse to strike.

Because when Richard Grayson said you were safe...

You were.

And anyone stupid enough to test that?

They didn't leave the same.

If they left at all.

[batsandbirdbrains]

I’ve been reminded that the reverse robins trope exists

The one where Damian has custody of Dick (reverse robins au)

I think it’s even better if most of the world doesn’t realize there are other Gotham vigilantes. Somehow, they’ve all stayed under the radar, but Robin is the one who goes out with Batman once he joins the Justice League. The others aren’t really interested in joining or even meeting them. They’re fine doing their own thing in Gotham & Blüdhaven.

But Bruce wasn’t actually around when Dick became part of the Wayne family. He’d been lost in time or whatever, and it was Damian who was at the circus that night. It was Damian who saw the Graysons fall. It was Damian who rushed to a tiny, frozen little boy who was kneeling in his parents’ blood and wrapped him in his coat, pulling him away and hiding his face in his shoulder.

Alfred thought the circus would maybe help Damian relax after all the pressure from taking over the Batman mantle. Give him something to smile about.

Instead, Damian gets in the car that night with a traumatized little boy, police and ambulance lights flickering from outside, and he looks Alfred dead in the eyes and says, “Congratulations. You’ve turned me into my father. The Commissioner and an agent from Child Protective Services will be stopping by the manor in about two hours.”

Alfred isn’t even all that surprised.

Damian adopts Dick immediately. He doesn’t want Dick to feel like his place in the manor is uncertain, like his place in the family isn’t permanent. He’s one of them now. He’s a Wayne.

Dick even agrees to hyphenate his last name when he sees how much Damian is fighting for him, when he hears him yell at the cops and the CPS people who call him a dirty gypsy and try to convince Damian to throw Dick in juvie, insinuating that Dick probably already stole valuables from the manor.

Nevermind the fact that Dick has barely moved or spoken a word in three weeks following his parents’ deaths.

Aside from sneaking out at night to interrogate criminals on Tony Zucco and what they know about him. But Batman finds him and foils his plans every night, bringing him back to his room at the manor.

It takes Dick less than two weeks to figure out it’s Damian behind the cowl. Damian is actually impressed, and he eventually agrees to train Dick to join the bats.

Tim thinks it’s an awful idea. But Tim and Damian clash with most things, so Damian considers his opinion invalid. Jason just thinks it’s funny that the kid wants his costume to have shorts.

And after a couple months of intense training, Robin is seen on the streets of Gotham beside Batman.

But then Bruce comes back, and he takes over the Batman mantle again, and Damian goes back to being Nightwing. Dick wants to stay Damian’s partner, he doesn’t know Bruce that well, he wants to stay with his Baba. But Bruce insists that he take over training Dick, and that since the public outside of Gotham became aware of Batman and Robin due to a high profile case, that Robin has to stay Batman’s partner.

Damian convinces Dick that it’s alright, because Damian is still going to be his Baba. They’re still going to live together in the penthouse. He doesn’t have to move, he doesn’t have to start calling Bruce dad, “none of the others do, anyway. Besides, you’re still my son. You’re still my Robin.”

So Dick continues going out on patrol with Batman, even if he insists to Damian that, “he’s not my Batman. You’re my Batman.”

Damian only ever lets Dick see how happy that makes him. He has a reputation to keep up, after all.

It’s Damian who agrees to let Dick join the Young Justice team. It’s Damian who gives permission for missions and training.

It’s Damian who uses an override code to enter Mount Justice when Dick is long overdue to be home from “a simple training exercise” that Bruce planned.

It’s Damian who finds his son limp on a stone slab, stuck in a psychic simulation.

It’s Damian who holds Dick’s hands and whispers in his ear that he’s alright, it’s not real, he needs to come back now when Dick is the only one who doesn’t wake up right away once M’gann loses her psychic grip on the simulation.

And when Dick shoots up, brow covered in sweat, breathing so labored that Damian is afraid he’s going to pass right back out, he just continues holding him and whispering to him that it’s alright, everything is alright, Baba’s here now. And Dick clings to him, holding on so tight his knuckles turn white, whispering into Damian’s chest that he thought Damian had died, he thought everyone died. I saw it, I saw them zap you, you were all just gone.

(As a side note, I don’t think this Bruce would want to be called Grandpa. It makes him feel too old. Bruce is supposed to be Jewish, right? Let’s have him go by Saba.)

And Damian is livid. Because how dare his father make his son live through what is essentially his worst nightmare. He snaps his head towards Bruce and seethes, “I told you no psychic simulations.”

“Saba said you agreed.”

The catch in his voice damn near breaks Damian’s heart. But it only serves to make him that much angrier with Bruce.

“You what?” He snaps at Bruce. “You told him I did what?”

“It was perfectly safe,” Bruce tries to reason with him.

“Clearly it was not!” Damian bites back. “I heard what the Martian said, Robin’s mind thought he was dead! Your ridiculous training exercise could have killed him!”

“He was perfectly safe. There was no real danger.”

“Stop,” Damian says, his voice perfectly calm. He tugs Dick close to him, as if letting him go would make him disappear into thin air. “Just stop.”

“Nightwing-“

“This is not the first time you’ve ignored my boundaries for him,” Damian tells him. “He is my son. He was my Robin before he was ever yours. And yet you stomp all over my limits for him time and time again. He is thirteen, he is not a soldier.”

He stands up, still holding Dick close, keeping an arm tight around his shoulders. As they pass by Bruce, Damian tells him in a final hiss, “Batman and Robin are done.”

“You’re being unreasonable,” Bruce barks at him.

“And you are being like Ra’s al Ghul,” Damian hisses back, tightening his grip on Dick’s shoulder. “Count yourself lucky I’m not keeping you from your grandson entirely.”

Damian moves to leave, but Dick tugs at his arm and whispers, “Wait, wait Baba, wait,” then he throws himself at Bruce, hugging him tight. Bruce kneels down to hug him back, and maybe he finally realizes how much he fucked up when Dick whispers to him, “I’m glad you’re not really dead.”

But then as quick as he was to hug Bruce, he’s quick to let go and mutter, “Bye, Saba.”

Bruce just runs a hand through Dick’s hair before he can fully pull away, and he says back in a gentle tone, “Bye, Robin. Be good.”

Dick gives him a little smile and wave before attaching himself back to Damian’s side.

Idk I just want Damian being a protective dad and Bruce realizing he was kind of a shitty grandpa.

[revelboo]

If I may ask for more Rung when you have a chance please, hope your having a lovely day.

Sure!

Anything For You Pt 3

Rung x Reader

• Watching your big, alien roommate carefully organizing parts on his desk, you huddle deeper into your blanket against the chill in the room. It’s almost obsessive the way he arranges things, before leaning back to survey what he’d done. Neat, orderly little piles that you immediately want to go mess with just to be a brat. “Do you want to help? I find assembling models to be therapeutic.” And he looks expectantly at you, like he really thinks you’re going to jump up and help him. Suddenly be besties.

• “I’m good. That’s not really my thing,” you mutter, wrapping yourself more firmly in the blanket. Trying to get you to relax around him, but you seem to be suspicious or downright hostile about everything. Definitely don’t trust him. Nothing like the human that had eventually asked to stay with Megatron. That mistrust of yours absolutely fascinating, challenging him to get past your defenses. Get you to talk to him and figure out the why.

• “And what is your thing?” Frowning at his question, you study him since he’s not looking at you, slowly snipping loose parts to fit together one piece at a time. Boring, tedious work meant to distract you from careful questions, prying without seeming to care too much about the answer. You’ve dealt with counselors before in juvie when you’d been younger. Those smiling faces hiding calculation. Gauging if you can be fixed. If you’re worth the bother.

• “Not models.” Your tone is sullen again and he glances at you. Finding you scowling at him. “What exactly are you?” You ask and he frowns. Because he’s already explained he’s Cybertronian, but you sniff softly and pull the blanket up over your head. “You’re a shrink, right?” Startled, he’s laughing despite himself, and you peek out at him. Offended again if he’s reading your expression right.

• “I’m not laughing at you, just that I’ve had Cybertronian patients call me that. It’s funny that humans use the same slur,” he says, reaching up and removing his glasses to study them idly. “We’re really not so different.” Snorting at him, because similar slang doesn’t make you the same. Or friends. “You don’t have to trust me. I know this must be difficult for you. Frightening. But if you want to talk I’m here.” Playing buddy to try and get you talking and you flip the end of the blanket over your head again. Not wanting to have to meet those kind optics, because something about him makes you want to spill your guts. Tell him everything and that’s not happening.

Previous

Next

[miguelschamp]

all of the girls you loved before

pairing: robby keene x fem!reader

summary: robby decides to visit you after getting out of juvie

warnings: none really

a/n: this is kind of a part two to say don’t go, but honestly it can be read as a stand alone. requested by @helianthus22 (i hope you like it <3)

it had only been a few hours since robby was released. his first thought was to try and see sam. to maybe try and talk to her about everything that happened. unfortunately, that went as terrible as it could’ve gone, so now he was walking to see you. hoping that your visits meant you’d enjoy his company.

since the first time you’d visited, you had gone to see him every week after that. even if it was only a few times, robby appreciated it. he couldn’t imagine why you would’ve wanted to spend your time with him, but nonetheless, he valued your time.

as he approaches your door, nerves begin to take over. what if you actually didn’t want to see him? what if you visiting was just a good gesture and he was reading too much into it?

he sighs and shakes his head before knocking on the door. it’s only a few seconds before he hears the locks turning and the door opens.

your eyes go wide as you smile, “robby? oh my god, you’re out.”

“yeah.” he nods, “i hope it’s okay that i’m here. i just remembered your address from when we all hung out before-“

“no, no. of course it’s okay.” you say quickly before opening the door wider, “do you wanna come in?”

“sure.” he stammers stepping in, “thanks.”

“yeah.” you say closing the door before locking it and leading him through the house, “sorry, it’s so quiet. my mom works nights, so it’s just me.”

robby hums in acknowledgment as you lead him up the stairs to your room. as he enters, you chuckle nervously and shut the door behind him, “sorry, it’s so messy. i wasn’t expecting anyone.”

“it’s okay.” he says shaking his head, “it’s better than anything i’ve had.”

he takes a seat on your chair at your vanity as you move around to fix up a few things.

“so..” you say as you sit on the edge of your bed, “is there a reason why you came to see me? not that i mind your company, but i figured you’d probably go to sam.”

“i did.” he says, “she was with miguel.”

your face drops, “what?”

“yeah.” he mutters

“i’m so sorry.” you say softly, “that sucks.”

“yeah.” robby says. he clenches his jaw before shaking his head, “but i guess i should’ve known, right?”

you furrow yours brows, “no. you said that she wrote you a few times, so it was only natural to think that she might’ve wanted to see you. i had no idea she and miguel were seeing each other again. i’m so sorry.”

“it’s not your fault.”

your face saddens as you watch robby stare down at his hands. you couldn’t even imagine how he felt. feeling as though you had no one in the most trying time of your life.

you let out a sigh before standing, “come on. i have something i wanna show you.”

robby’s brows furrow as you walk toward your window and pull it open, “where are we going?”

“on the roof.” you chuckle before turning and climbing out

“what?”

•••

it had been about an hour since you pulled robby to sit on the roof. and he would be lying if he said it hadn’t calmed him. you had taken his mind off sam and his situation for the time being just by being yourself.

as you looked up at the sky, the stars seeming to catch your attention, robby looked at you. the one person who had been beside him throughout everything. although you two had been on opposite sides of the drama, you never let karate get in the way of being there for the people you cared about. no matter what, he would always be grateful to sam for introducing the two of you.

“y/n.”

“hm?” you hum looking over at him

“thank you.”

you furrow your brows with a smile, “for what?”

“being here for me.” he says and your face softens, “i know i probably didn’t show it all the time, but i do appreciate it. for awhile, i felt like i didn’t have anybody.”

“well, you have me.” you smile

robby’s face breaks into a small smile for the first time in a long time. as a comfortable silence settles between the two of you, you suddenly become aware of how close the two of you had gotten.

for a second, your eyes drift down to robby’s lips before drifting back up. before you know it, robby kisses you softly. giving you enough time to pull away and tell him you didn’t feel the same. when you kiss him back, he tilts his head slightly to deepen the kiss.

his hand comes up and cups your face before you pull away. small breaths escape your lips as your eyes flicker up to his.

“that wasn’t just a one time thing, was it?”

robby shakes his head, “i don’t want it to be.”

you smile brightly, “good.”

[spacerockfloater]

I’m going to preface this post by saying I don’t give a flying fuck about the hate I’m going to receive for the opinion I will be sharing and I won’t bother replying to any comments attacking me for it.

I fucking LOVE that Aemond killed Luke and I wish it wasn’t accidental. I wish Luke’s death was full on intentional, lol.

As a victim of bullying, I’ve been in situations where I have had to fend off 20+ kids as a kid myself. I’ve been verbally, physically, emotionally and psychologically assaulted as a child by other children, simply because I wanted, strived for and had good grades in school, actions that did not affect any of my classmates in the slightest. Therefore, I absolutely sympathise with Aemond, whose lack of dragon and later on his acquisition of one hurt no one (dragons belong to no one, you snooze you lose), yet he still got ridiculed and attacked for it. Yes, Aegon was also a bully and I hate him for it, but ultimately he grows out of it and supports his family, unlike the Strong bastards who remain bullies and assaulters. Oh, and Aemond tried to hit Jace with a rock because he attacked him first. Accusing him for standing up for himself is victim blaming. People who defend the Strong boys are bullies and that’s final.

No, I don’t give a rat’s ass that his attackers were children. Aemond was a child, too, and they ganked him 4v1. It’s crazy how some of y’all support physically attacking someone because you don’t agree with them. It was satisfying to see him kick their teeth in. Aemond and Luke are only 2 years apart, even if the actors’ appearances suggest otherwise. Your age does not excuse you being a fucking piece of shit. Children and teenagers appear on the news daily as rapists, killers, assaulters and all kind of criminals. That’s the reason juvie exists. Children should face the consequences of their actions.

“Are you excusing child murder?” if it is by the hand of the child they unapologetically disabled, fuck yeah. Besides, at the end of the day, Aemond dies, too, so you could say justice is served.

Still, I would have given the Strong boy the benefit of the doubt if it weren’t for this scene:

Lucerys is laughing at Aemond.

He is looking him in the eye and he is laughing at him. It’s been 6 fucking years. Lucerys is 17 (confirmed by the writers) and he feels no remorse for what he did. He was not punished for his action, so he has learned nothing.

He feels safe to mock Aemond, in the comfort and safety of his grandfather’s house, where his guard and stepdad can stop Aemond, whom he cannot beat on his own, from bashing his head against the wall. He feels safe to attack Aemond when he calls him Strong, knowing that other people will finish the fight he started but can’t win.

But what happens when no one is around to protect him from the consequences of his own actions? He shits himself. His face falls, he stumbles backwards and does not object to Aemond calling him Strong.

Not laughing now, huh, you little shit stain?

[boredfantasizer]

Obsessed. (Matthew Sturniolo)

Obsessed. (Matthew Sturniolo)

WARNINGS:  Drug abuse, physical abuse, PTSD, smut, stalking, teen drinking. Toxic!Matt (if you squint) / tension building / cursing / SMUT / p in v / unprotected sex / Dom!Matt / pet names. Mentions of selling the female body for pleasure, abusive father, fight.

TROPES: Slow burn, Stranger to lover, Stalker to lover, Enemies to lovers.

MATT’S POV: It was the morning; I went to school and spot my friends in the hallway I walk up to them and say hi to them. After a few moments of talking, I noticed they all tensed up as you walked in the hallway to go to your class. I look at my friends and furrow my brows in confusion from their change in demeanor.

            “What the hell are you guys suddenly scared of? Y’all look like fucking idiots.” I say chuckling at how dumb they look now.

            “Her.” One of my friends say in a timid tone, I look in the direction they we’re looking at and spot you. You we’re walking by phone in your hands. You looked like a regular teenage girl so obviously I look at my friends like they’re stupid. “What about her?” I ask them.

            They all turn to me and look at me like I grew two heads.

            “What? Why are y’all looking at me like that?”

“Do you not know who she is?” One of my friends asked me.

“No?” I say in a confused tone.

My friends all turn to me and tilt their heads to the side, it looks like they’re judging me which in turn makes me more confused.

            “Dude… She’s fucking crazy, she’s been in and out of juvie and foster homes, group homes. She’s been kicked out of three schools already, she just got back from being suspended. You remember that big fight that happened a few days ago with and Angela ended up with a dislocated jaw?”

            “Yeah, I remember people talking about it, I didn’t see it though. Why?”              “That was her.” My friend says he points to you and my eyes widen in shock and amusement.

“Still, you guys look like a bunch of pussies for being scared of a girl. Watch, I’ll talk to her, and you’ll see there’s nothing to be scared of. Y’all are just pussies.” I start to walk towards you then my another one of my friends call out.

“Matt don’t! She’s dangerous don’t talk to her.” He yells, a hint of panic in his voice. I turn around still walking, now walking backwards, “I’ll be fine watch.” I turn back around and continue walking towards you. You were at a locker; I am assuming is yours.

Y/N’S POV:

I was at a locker, it wasn’t mine, in fact I didn’t know the person who owns the locker. I was eating an apple when I heard a voice next to me. “Hey” the voice said. I turn and see a boy, I’ve seen him around, but I’ve never talked to him; he’s attractive but I don’t pay attention to him much. I throw the apple in the locker and close it then turn to face the boy. “What do you want?” I say in an annoyed tone.             “Just wanted to say hi.” The boy says.             “Well you said it. Now goodbye.” I turned and walked away from him to my class.

*Time skip*

Lunchtime rolled around I grabbed my food and went to sit at an empty table. I pull out my phone and headphones from my backpack, I plug in my headphones and listen to music while I eat, suddenly I see the shadow of someone in front of me. I look up and see the boy from this morning at the locker. I pull one earcup from my ear and look at him.

“What?” I say in an annoyed tone.

“Thought you might want company.” The boy says.

            “Well, you thought wrong so scram.” I speak.

“Oh, come on don’t be like that… What are you listening to?” The boy asks.

“I’m not going to get rid of you, huh?”

“Nope. I’m in too deep, what are you listening too?” He says as he takes a fry from my tray and pops it into his mouth. I roll my eyes and scoff but answer anyways.  

“Paranoid by Chase Atlantic.” I say dryly, trying to end the conversation as soon as possible.             “Oh you an angel sweetheart?” He says in a teasing tone which I don’t enjoy.             “Don’t call me sweetheart it’s weird.” I say in a harsh firm tone.            

He chuckled softly at my annoyance, finding your feisty personality amusing. He tilted his head slightly, studying you intently. “What should I call you then, princess?"

"That's worse." My patience running thin the more this fucker talks.             He chuckled softly again, clearly enjoying my annoyance. "Alright, alright, I won't call you princess then. Though I have to say you are kind of acting like one right now." He smirked slightly, enjoying the way I get agitated whenever he called me pet names.

God, I want to punch him in the face, I roll my eyes "I'm going to go." I stand up, throw the rest of my food away and head for the cafeteria doors

He watches as I stand up and make my way to the cafeteria doors, his smile fading slightly. He didn't want to let you leave just yet. Without thinking, he stands up quickly and walks up behind you.

"Wait." he says, grabbing my wrist gently.

I yank my hand back the second his skin contacts mine

"What?!" I yell.

He winced slightly when I yanked my hand back, but he tried to hide it. He shoved his hands into his pockets and met my gaze, his expression serious.

"Why do you have to be so damn stubborn? You can't seriously think I'm going to just let you walk away like that."

“What do you want… Make it quick.” I speak.

            He took a step closer to me    , his eyes never leaving mine. He let out a small sigh before speaking, his tone more serious than before.

"I want you to stop being so defensive all the time. You don't have to act like you hate everyone and everything. Why are you so damn closed off?”

My intense exterior falters, my thoughts immediately go to my childhood, I compose myself and look at him intensely. I speak in a harsh tone.

"Don't worry about shit that doesn't concern you."

He notices the way my exterior falters but doesn't point it out. He takes a step closer, standing just inches away from me now.

"Everything that has to do with you concerns me." He said, his voice firm but gentle at the same time. "I just don't understand why you're so closed off all the time. Why can't you let anyone in?"

"You don't even know my name! Why do fucking care so much about a random girl?!" I snap at him, yelling at him clearly pissed off at the fact that he won't take a goddamn hint and leave me alone.

He took a step back, slightly taken aback by my sudden change in demeanor. He could hear the anger in your voice. He took a deep breath.

"I don't know your name because you won't tell me!" He retorted, his voice rising slightly. "And I care because I can tell there's more to you than you are letting on!"

"I don't know you! I don't know your name! And you don't know my name! I'm not interested leave me the fuck alone!"

"Why are you being so damn difficult?! Can't you just let me in for one goddamn minute?" He exclaimed, his voice raising in volume as his frustration grew

“No." I yell at him and walk out of the cafeteria doors. MATT’S POV:

And that was it… She walked off. I didn't know why I was so hell-bent on getting to know you better. Maybe it was the way you acted so closed off and defensive. Maybe it was the fact that you were so damn attractive. Maybe it was both. I didn't know.

I spent the rest of the day constantly thinking about you. Even throughout my classes, I didn't seem to concentrate on anything else. I tried to push the thoughts of you out of my mind, but I just couldn't. Your feisty demeanor stuck in my head like glue. As soon as the final bell rang, I grabbed my things and quickly made my way outside trying to get home as soon as possible but when I saw you… Something clicked in me, I decided to follow you home.

 I kept a distance, trying not to make it too obvious that I was following you. I know it was kind of creepy, but I can't help it. I needed to get to the bottom of why you were so damn closed off all the time. I needed to break down those walls you had built up so high. As you walked, I kept my eyes on you, watching your every move, my mind racing with thoughts and questions like ‘Why do you look to damn hot?’ ‘Why we’re you so closed off?’ ‘Why did you go to juvie so many times?’ Then I started getting dirtier thoughts, I started thinking about the way your body looked in the clothes you wore today. Thinking about what’s under those clothes. And how your nails would feel digging into my shoulders as I make you feel good, how you would look under me and on top of me.

We get to your house, and I hide in a nearby bush hoping you don’t see me. I look up at your house. It’s a two-story house, it looks old, but still livable. I take my phone out of my back pocket and open Google Maps, trying to see the location. Once I find it, I favorite it. I have intentions of coming back here. I notice as you open the door and swing it closed behind you. Once I see that you are inside, I step out of the bush and walk around. Trying to look for an entrance, I saw a cracked window. I go up to it and push it up further and come inside, I see you in the kitchen. You have your headphones on listening to music and dancing around a bit as you get a snack. I chuckle softly at the sight and hide behind the couch. After you finish your snack you start heading upstairs.

As you walk up the stairs you take off your shirt, leaving you in your bra. My breath hitches and I continue following you. You take off your headphones and I instantly hide, you head inside the bathroom, and I hear the shower, I sigh in relief look down and notice the tightness in my pants. I shake my head and look in the direction of the bathroom I go up to the door and open it slightly peeking my head in and see the sight of you in the shower through the glass door, I stop looking and lean against the wall next to the door.

“Fuck…” I mutter under my breath from the sight of you. I need to make you mine and I need to do it as soon as possible. I peek my head back through the door, I take out my phone and take a picture of you in the shower, I know it’s fucked up but it’s like my hands have a mind of their own. As I hear the sound of the water stopping I start making my way downstairs.

I get home and see my brothers Nick and Chris on the couch watching something. They both turn to look at me as I walk in the door. Both of them have their brows furrowed in concern, and confusion.

“Where the fuck have you been?” Nick says, his tone a little irritated.

“Out.” I respond dryly, not wanting to give them the real reason out of embarrassment. Even though they can clearly see that I am lying.

“Quit bein’ vague what were you doing?” Chris says.

I sigh and run one of my hands through my messy hair. I decide to tell them.

“I was following a girl…” I say reluctantly.

Both Nick and Chris’ eyes widen at my response, Chris looking amused and Nick looking worried.

“Who was it?” Chris asks.

“That one girl who has been in and out of juvie…” I respond looking down at the floor. Not wanting to meet their gazes.

Both Nick and Chris tense up at the mention of you.

“W- why her?” Nick asks.

“Yeah, she’s not exactly an easy target Matt, she will chew you up eat you and spit you out. You do realize that right?” Chris says, his tone concerned

“I don’t care. No one's made it out alive, but I'll be the first, mark my words she will be mine.” I say

Both Nick and Chris furrow their brows and turn back to the TV trying to avoid looking at me. *Time Skip* Y/N’S POV:

‘Sick fucker’ I think to myself when I see a boy look at me during class, biting his lip and smirking like an idiot, I want to beat his ass and leave him dead on the floor for even thinking about looking at me the way he is. I turn to the demented asshole and speak.

“Keep lookin’ at me like that and I’ll cut your fucking dick off and shove it down your throat.”

The teacher clearly heard that and cleared his throat.

“Don’t talk like that on school campus. Or at all it’s not lady-like.” The teacher says.

I furrow my brows at the teachers comment and gesture to the guy who was eye-fucking me the whole class period.

“That demented idiot has been eye-fucking me the whole period and you’re worried about me being ‘un-lady-like’?”

“Language Y/N.” The teacher says,

I scoff and lean back into my seat, crossing my arms over my chest, after a few moments the class ends. I grab my stuff and head to my next class of the dreadful day. Before going to class I head to the bathroom and look at myself in the mirror, I sigh and dig into my bookbag for a bottle of concerta. I pop it in my mouth and take a sip of my water bottle to swallow the pill then head to class. When I entered the class I sit at a random desk and lay my head on it then I heard a voice.

“Tired, huh?” I listen and look up, it’s the boy from yesterday.

“You know most boys give up when a girl show’s no interest.” I say in a tiredly annoyed tone.

“Well, I’m not most people.” He says smirking

I sit up and look at him from the corner of my eye before turning to face him completely.

“What’s your name lover-boy?” I say teasingly but I am still annoyed at him.

He chuckles softly at the nickname and shakes his head,

“Matt, how ‘bout your name princess?” He uses the nickname to get a reaction out of me and he does.

“I told you to not call me princess… Also, my name is Y/N.”

He hums and nods, as the teacher starts talking.

After a good thirty minutes of the teachers yammering on and on, I get a note on my desk. I furrow my brows, take it and open it. It reads, ‘I’m sitting with you at lunch again today, try and stop me, and you are not allowed to go anywhere.’ I look in the direction of Matt. I crumbled the paper and threw it at him. Paper ball hitting his temple.

“Bingo,” I whisper as the ball hits him but loud enough for him to hear me.

“Aw, look at you, warming up to me already.” Matt whispers in an obnoxious child-like voice.

“Shut up I still think you’re trying too hard for a girl you barely know.” I say in an annoyed tone.

“I don’t need to know you to know that I’m obsessed with you” he says, I furrow my brows at his words. He doesn’t know me, doesn’t know my past, why I’ve been in and out of juvie and foster homes, anything about my family, nothing about me… How can he be obsessed with me?

“You’re nothing like any girl I’ve ever met… You carry yourself differently, yes, I know about the fights and the juvie hell even the foster homes. You keep saying “You don’t know me” I know that. I want you to teach me. I want to know everything about you. I want to know what you think, what you feel. Everything.” He continues, I feel a sense of safety with him suddenly then I look up at him and make eye contact with him. He has beautiful icy blue eyes; I didn’t notice them before them but now I do.

“You’re going to regret sayin’ that Matt…” I speak

He leans closer to me and whispers in my ear, his breath sending shivers down my spine.

“I’m not going to regret anything if it includes you.” He whispers in my ear and leans back in his seat and works on his assignment.

“Ugh, fine. Lunch you said?” I speak

His eyes light up when I speak after hearing my words his leg starts bouncing out of excitement, I chuckle softly at the sight of him being excited to talk to me more.

“Yeah- Lunch…” He says, trying to keep his voice from being shaky and failing miserably. MATT’S POV:

“Fuck she’s gorgeous.” I say to my friends as you walk by, it takes everything in me to not go up to you and drag you to my car. The way you walk, the way you talk, the way you bite your lip subconsciously, everything about the way you carry yourself draws me in more and more.

“She’s insane is what she is.” My friend says, his words snapping me out of my thoughts. I glare at him.

“I heard she used to beat the shit out of her ex when he talked about fucking her.” He says.

“I mean can you blame him? I want to dive in that pussy now. What I would give to feel her wrap around my cock…” I say without even realizing it.

My friends furrow their brows and look at me weirdly, one of them chuckles and speaks up after a few moments of silence.

“Since when have you been freaky?”

“Since I laid eyes on her.”

Y/N’S POV:

            Lunchtime rolled around and I groaned as I remembered that Matt would sit next to me. I don’t know why he’s so invested in me, but I find it amusing and annoying at the same time. He seems like a good guy, but I’ve been hurt by many men that were supposed to love me and left me. God, forbid I let someone ruin me again. First it was my dad, then my ex-boyfriend. Then my supposed ‘best friend’ either way I’ve been hurt too many times to let anyone in.

Sadly, Matt just had to deal with the fact that I don’t trust anyone unless they prove to be trustworthy. But will I ever tell him that? Hell no, if I do tell him that he’ll do everything in his power to seem worthy to get me to trust him. I want to get to know the real Matt. I remember my mom would always tell me… ‘The three-month rule’ basically saying that men show their true colors after three months. But I don’t want to wait that long but I have to do what I have to do, I guess.

I sat at my usual table and sure enough. Matt came

“Hey…” Matt says dragging the ‘y’.

“Hi” I say back, not adding any extra energy that needs to be added. I pull out my earbuds and put one in my ear.

“You know it’s rude to listen to music while you’re having a conversation with someone.” Matt says. I roll my eyes, not wanting to deal with his shit or anyone’s shit for that matter.

“Oh, bite me.” I retaliate.

“Don’t tempt me, baby...” Matt says, his voice sultry

I must admit… I did not like the effect that nickname, and his voice had on me. I avoid eye contact for a second to blush and look back at him, as seriously as ever. I plug in my headphones and play music. Looking down at my food before eating it. I glance up and see Matt furrowing his brows at me.

“What’re you listening to?” Matt asks.

“Uh. Nothin’.”

“C’mon tell me.” Matt says, trying to reach for my phone.

I move to take my phone just as he reaches for it. But he grabs it and looks at the song, I rest my forehead in my hands and let out a small ‘fuck’.

He smirks, liking what he saw playing on the phone. “Talk Dirty by Daniel Di Angelo…” He says slowly as he slowly puts the phone down. “Didn’t know you liked that type of music, babe… Good to know.”

I snatch my phone back “What? Surprised that I know good music?”

“No, surprised that you would listen to something so… Sexual…”

“You’re acting like as if I grew two heads, it’s a fucking song Matt.”

“I know that. But damn, such a sexual song… Why?” He says in a teasing tone.

“Shut. Up.” I speak “So what if I like songs that have very sexual meaning? They’re good songs.” I say sounding kind of timid.

“Hey, I’m not denying that they’re good songs I’m just saying… They suit you. Don’t hurt me.” He says teasingly.

“Oh, shut up I’m not going to hurt you.” I say chuckling softly.

“Is that your fucked up way of saying you care about me?” Matt says in a teasing tone once again, I look up and throw a fry at him and chuckle. He chuckles as well before getting the French fry and popping it in his mouth. He swallows and a moment of complete silence takes over. He looks at me, scanning over my face.

“You’re gorgeous…” He murmurs. I blush slightly at his words

“Thanks…” I murmur back.

“Can I kiss you?” He asks.

I look at him and furrow my brows.

“What…?” Is the only word that comes out of my mouth. I am shocked and taken aback by this. He leans forward and takes his hand in mine.

“Can I kiss you?” He repeats.

I open my mouth to respond but no words come out. He suddenly stands up, still holding my hand, he drags me out of the cafeteria and into the nearest storage closet. He pushes me against the wall, his body flush against mine. He cups my jaw and makes me look up at him then kisses me softly. My eyes widen, normally I would push him off and probably slap him across the face but this… This feels sort of… Right? I kiss him back. He hums as soon as he feels my lips moving against his, he whispers against my lips.

“I knew you couldn’t resist…” He whispers before kissing me again. Our lips moving in perfect sync before he traces his tongue against my bottom lip, silently asking for more access to my mouth. I part my lips enough to let his tongue in. He slides his tongue in my mouth and suddenly grabs my hips, lifting me up. I wrap my arms around his neck and my legs around his waist, he sets me down on a nearby counter. He breaks the kiss and rests his forehead against mine trying to catch his breath.

“The things I want to do to you…” He whispers.

MATT’S POV:

It’s been a week since we kissed in the janitor’s closet… I don’t regret it I never will but, she hasn’t talked to me since the kiss happened. I don’t know what’s going on. She seemed so into the kiss and now she’s pushing me away. Not that I was close to her in the first place. I want to go to her place and just watch her. Figure out why she’s shutting me out, but I don’t. She probably needs her space.

It’s morning and I notice that you are wearing a very oversized hoodie with the hood on to cover your face, I don’t think much of it. I walk up to you and pat your shoulder softly causing you to flinch. I furrow my brows at your flinch and grab your arm and turn you around.

“Why’d you flinch like that? It’s just me.” I ask

“No reason.” You respond

I pull the hood from your head and make you look up at me, my eyes widen then I see your face covered in cuts and bruises. My expression goes from soft to furious in a millisecond.

“Who did this to you?!” I say cupping your cheek.

“No one. Don’t worry about it.” You say coldly and remove my hand from your cheek as you start to walk. Before you get too far, I grab your arm and pull you back against my chest.

“Y/n… What happened?” I say firmly into your ear.

You sigh as you start talking “Can we go somewhere private?” You ask softly, I nod and lead you to my car. Once we’re there I open the passenger seat for you to get in, once you get in I go to the drivers seat of the car. Once settled I look at you with worry, remorse and adoration in my eyes.

“These were from my dad…” You say softly, not looking at me and fiddling with your hands in your lap.

“Your dad…?” I whisper softly

“Let me finish…” You said.

“My dad… Isn’t exactly the loving type, he’s abusive and beats the hell out of my siblings and I… He’s a shitty dad, he handed us off to family services for years so that he can run drugs with the Bianchi family-” I interrupt you

“Sorry… Bianchi family?”

“The Bianchi’s… They’re one of the biggest mafia families. My dad handed my siblings and I off to family services so that he can work for them. When he got us back, he made us all get high and shitfaced, but I refused, he beat the shit out of me and made me do it. From that day forward he has been intense, abusive and just plain insane. Yesterday he beat the shit out of me because he wanted to sell my body for extra cash, and I refused… Now I look horrible, I covered what I could with makeup but… I still look rough.” You explain and my expression darkens. I want to kill your dad, no one should treat an angel like you like that.

“You’re beautiful… Even covered in bruises you look beautiful. And as for your dad… He’s a total prick. I’m not going to let you get hurt by him or anyone anymore, you’re mine to hold, to love, to protect, to kiss and especially to fuck.”

You chuckle bitterly

“You’re still on that? Your dead set on fucking me, huh?” You said.

“Yeah. Of course, I am.” I respond.

You lean back into the seat and I lean in and kiss your shoulder to you neck then ear. “Let me show you how beautiful you are…” I whisper seductively in your ear before biting your earlobe. You tilt you head to the side, giving me more access to your neck, I continue kissing your neck as you speak. Your voice dropping to a whisper.

“Fuck, Matt.” You whisper as your eyes flutter close.

I move my hand to your thigh, gripping it. I then move your head to look at me. My eyes scan your face.

“You’re so beautiful…” I say before kissing you harshly

Y/N’S POV:

I kiss him back, shifting my body to fully face him, his hands go to my hips but in a failed attempt to pull me closer he breaks the kiss and reclines his seat. My eyes widen and he grabs my hips and pulls me across the gearshift to sit on his lap, he leans up and kisses me again. I kiss him back; his hand goes to the back of my head to pull me down with him as he lays flat against the reclined seat. He bucks his hips up to allow me to feel his bulge against my core. My hips grow a mind of their own and I grind down on him. He lets out a guttural moan from the back of his throat the sound being muffled by my lips against his.

After a few moments I keep grinding on him as we make out. Suddenly his hands go to my hips stopping my movements and he breaks the kiss. I sit up and look down at him with a confused expression on my face.

“What? Why’d you stop.” I ask, honestly kind of frustrated that he stopped.

“I can’t do this…” He says.

“Seriously?” I say as I start to move from his lap. His grip tightens around my hips keeping me in the same position on his lap.

“You didn’t let me finish… I can’t do this, in the front seat, it’s too uncomfortable. Let’s move to the back.”

Without letting me respond he shifts and pulls his seat back up, he goes to the backseat and pulls me with him, he pulls me onto the seat, laying me across all three backseats of the car. He grabs my wrists and pins them on the sides of my head. He kisses me roughly then moves to kiss my neck, his hands slipping under my hoodie and starts to pull it up. Once it’s high enough he pulls it over my head and discards it somewhere on the floor. He slips out of his own shirt and takes a moment to look at upper body with only a bra on. He moves his hands to the straps of my bra and pulls them down my shoulders. I lifted my back enough for him to unhook my bra. Once unhooked he throws it on the floor where my hoodie was. His head moves to kiss my neck again.

His head moves lower to my chest, and he kisses both of my tits, then he starts sucking the left one and fondling the right one with his hand, the action causes a moan to escape from me. I feel him smirk against my nipple, he sucks for a few moments before moving to the right one to give it the same amount of love. He kisses my sternum then looks at me.

“You’re gorgeous.” He says before kissing me. His hands go to unbuckle his belt, and he pulls his pants down enough to reveal his lengthy erection that was dripping in pre-cum. My eyes widen at the view.

“Like what you see?” He says in a teasing tone.

“Shut the fuck up.” I say as I move to take off my own pants. He chuckles and practically yanks the pants and underwear off.

He aligns himself to my entrance before moving in, not giving me time to get used to his length before he starts moving. I moan loudly, a mixture of pain and pleasure.

“Matt! Too much, too much!” I moan out in pain and pleasure.

“Shh, you can do it. Just take it all.” He whispers encouraging me to take all of his very very big dick…

“Put on music.” He orders as his dick pumps in and out of my pussy.

“Now?” I ask in a ‘seriously?’ tone

“Yes now, I want to fuck you to the beat of the music.”

I reach over and grab his phone. He tells me the password and I put on a song that I think would fit the situation ‘The Walls’ by Chase Atlantic, while I was putting the song on Matt hits my G-spot and I moan loudly. Then the music starts playing, Matt smirks.

“Good choice baby I’m going to fuck you so hard.”

He says before he starts moving along to the beat of the song. Hard and fast, with each movement I moan.

“Matt, I can’t take it anymore.” I whimper.

His eyes darkened. The answering growl is feral and vicious. And all it does is heighten the pleasure radiating from where our bodies connect. His arm circles around my waist, and in one swift motion, he lifts me up and twists us, so he is sitting on the seat again while I straddle his lap. When he grabs my waist and yanks me down on his cock, my eyes pop open wide. This new angle has him far deeper than before—a lot deeper than I thought my body was capable of taking. “Matt!” I gasp, my nails now digging into his shoulders. “Ride me, baby. I want to feel your pussy grip every inch of my cock.” “Fuck, I can’t,” I groan, my body still working to adjust to the sheer size of this man. “You have five seconds before I rearrange your organs,” he threatens. It does the job, kicking my ass into high gear and immediately rising up and sliding back down slowly. After a few different readjustments, I finally find an angle that allows me to completely seat myself on Matt without feeling him come up my throat.

“That’s it, baby,” he croons into my ear. “Your sweet little pussy is gripping my cock so fucking tight.”

After a few moments I come, when he notices he smirks and kisses me gently

“Good girl.’’ He praises and after a few moments he gets close enough and pulls me off of his lap to allow him to come without spilling his seed inside of me. I sit on the seat trying to catch my breath. Listening to the music that was playing while we did that. The song that was playing was ‘Jennifer’s Body’ by Plvtinum ft. Chris Grey and Dutch Melrose. Matt looks over and smiles.

“This song accurately describes how I feel about you.”

I roll my eyes and move to put my clothes back on.

“Don’t expect me to do that again… I was vulnerable.”

“Yeah, vulnerable looks good on you, maybe you should you know… Not box your emotions all the time, talk to people, talk to me. I’ll always be here for you… Always.”

MATT’S POV:

Somehow, I convinced you to sleep with me. In my house, in my room with me. Nick and Chris were concerned, they didn't necesarily want you in our house but did I give a fuck? No. I wasn’t going to let you sleep in that house with your dad.

I was awake. You had fallen asleep with a book in your lap a few hours ago, who knew you liked reading? I took the book and marked the page you was on, placed it on the nightstand next to my bed and laid next to you spooning you as I try to fall asleep myself. I can’t… I turn over and pick up my phone looking at the time, 1:14 in the morning. I look over at you and sigh, looking at your bruises and cuts that were scabbing over left from where you dad hit you. I feel a surge of anger when I see it. I stand up, put on my shoes and go downstairs, I find Chris laying on the couch with his phone in his hand scrolling through it.

He looks up as he hears me enter the room he notices my shoes his brow furrows, “going somewhere?” he asks, his voice groggily from lack of sleep. “Just a little walk. I need to clear my mind.” I respond. He nods and goes back to his phone. After a second he asked me, “and... Y/n?” “She’s fine just sleepin’ in my room.” I walk past him and head out the front door. I walk around the neighborhood before leaving the neighborhood.

I walked to Y/n’s house. The thought of beating up your dad hasn’t left my mind, so I decided to make it a reality. I didn’t necessarily want to, I mean I was terrified of the man but I couldn’t hold myself back it was like my feet had a mind of their own. I get to your house and go through the same window I went through the first time I came over. I immediately saw your dad knocked out on the couch surrounded by beer bottles. Another surge of anger flows through me. That was the man who hurt the angel that is Y/n. I shake my head and walk over to him; I tap his shoulder to wake him up. The man groans then wakes up, looking at how I am towering over him. He furrows his brows looking up at me. My eyes immediately darken I would normally never do this, but for you...? I'll do damn near anything.

“Who the hell are you?” He asks.

“Y/n’s friend.”

The man immediately sits up.

“Tell me where she is… We have some ‘business’ to attend to as soon as possible.”

“No.” I snap, knowing ‘business’ he was talking about.

The man stands up and grabs me by my shirt collar pulling me closer roughly.

“Who do you think you are? Tell me where my daughter is now.”

I don’t respond. Instead, I step on his foot, and he pushes me against the wall. I grunt and quickly go to punch the man in the face. He punches me back; I grab one of the beer bottles and smash it over his head. He throws me, I land on the coffee table, the glass breaking below me. He grabs my shirt collar again and punches me. I feel that my lip is starting to bleed. I grab his shirt collar and punch him back he lifts me up and slams me back down, I grunt, he punches me again.

And it darkens.

[f1rewr1t3r]

Rq! Mickey and Ian who adopt/foster an angry teenage girl (that’s the only type of person I could ever see Mickey looking after.)

based on this request ☝️☝️

@

Summary: When Ian and Mickey’s foster daughter defend them.

Gallovich x Adopted!Daughter!Reader (platonic)

~Mickey and Ian pov~

It was a random Tuesday morning and Ian and Mickey were laying in bed after a very…eventful night. Ian had been thinking about fostering, or even adopting for a few weeks but he didn’t know how Mick would react to it. So he made an appointment with the foster system. An appointment Mickey didn’t know about. “Hey, Mick, cmon we gotta go” Ian said before sitting up and stretching. “The fuck you mean we gotta go, where the fuck we goin,” Mickey asked confused as to where they might have to go. As Ian started getting dressed he said, “I made us an appointment.” Mickey stood up before staying, “The fuck kinda appointment we gotta go to at,” he paused and looked at the clock on the nightstand before continuing, “9 in the fuckin mornin?” Ian sighed, “Just get dressed and I’ll tell you on the way there.” Mickey just sighs and grumbles some curses before getting dressed and following Ian out to the car.

The started driving to the agency office, before Mickey finally asks, “so where the fuck we goin?” getting impatient. Ian hesitates before saying, “We’re headed to the DCFS office.” He says in a hesitant tone. Mickey has a confused look on his face before saying, “the fuckin child and family services place, what in the holy fuck are we going there for?” Ian looks over at Mickey, “Because I think we should foster a kid, I really think we should up our relationship and try having a kid and look it’s just fostering right now so if it doesn’t work out then we’ll know. But I mean you’re great with Franny and I think this could be a good thing for us.” Mickey thinks for a few minutes. “You know what fuck it why the fuck ye ru not, but ain’t raising no my little pony fuck ass kid ok,” he says. Ian laughs, “Mick you couldn’t raise a kid like that even if you tried.”

They pull into the DCFS parking lot and after a few minutes they go in and meet the case worker. She comes out in a typical office outfit and greets Mickey and Ian with a smile and a handshake. “Hi you must be Mr Gallagher and Mr Milkovich,” she said in a sweet tone. “Yes ma’am that’s us,” Ian replied trying to match her tone. “Well it’s lovely to meet you, you can go ahead and follow me to my office.” She says before walking toward her office. Ian and Mickey exchange looks before following her to her office. They sit down adjacent to her when she sits at her desk and puts a few files on her desk. She clears her throat before speaking, “we’ve gone over you both and done background checks and I do understand that you both have a minor criminal record but both of your parole officers have signed off on you both being clean.” Ian and Mickey look at each other with confusion before Ian responds, “any certain reason why you are being so lenient.” He asks hesitantly. The case worker sighs, “look I’m going to be completely honest, we’ve already chosen a child for you. Her name is y/n and she is a heathen. She’s been through 12 different foster homes in just 3 years. Even gone to juvie once-“ Before she could continue Mickey interjects, “what she go to juvie for?” The case worker looks at him before answering his initial question.

“Assault and battery. Her last placement was, I admit, a poor one. Her foster parents were apparently quite abusive and y/n didn’t take kindly to people putting their hands on her. She spent 6 months in juvie and was on parole for the rest of the year.” Mickey nods, “sweet.” Ian immediately looks over at him and nudges him, giving him a stern look. “I-I mean that’s terrible.” Mickey corrects himself. The case worker looks at the two of them before speaking again, “I’ve spoken to the state and we believe her being with someone with a similar… temperament might be better for her. Maybe even call her down a bit. We really just need to get her out of our hair for a while. We do have her here today if you would like to meet her.” Ian and Mickey is a bit taken aback but agree to meeting y/n.

A few minutes later the case worker opens the door to reveal a handcuffed y/n and a husky security guard with a name tag that says Dave. The girl walks over to the chair and raises her wrists, signaling Dave to uncuff her. “Is this really necessary” Ian asks with a chuckle. The case worker chuckles before responding to him, “oh it’s just some precautionary measures due to some…previous incidents.” Mickey slightly laughs at the comment. Dave takes the keys and uncuffs y/n. She plops down on the chair before saying, “Thanks Davey” she feigns a sweet tone before turning serious, “now you and your overweight Oompa Loompa lookin ass can leave.” In that moment Mickey starts laughing hysterically, and Ian has to refrain himself from doing the same. The case worker rubs her temples before muttering, “lord help me.” Dave sighs and says to the girl, “always a pleasure y/n,” before he walks out of the room. The case worker turns to look at the three and says, “I have some other things to tend to, so I will let you three get acquainted. Dave will be just outside the door, should anything go…awry.” She proceeds to shut the door as I slouch back in my chair and look at the two men. We sit there in silence for a second before I speak up, “Sooooooo, are you guys like gay?” Mickey pipes up and says, “well no he is, I just like having another man’s dick in my ass” he points to Ian as he speaks. Ian immediately look at Mickey, “MICK!” I start laughing before sitting up. “No no it’s ok, that’s chill. I was just askin.”

Ian looks at me with a bit of surprise before responding, “yes we’re gay.” I nod slightly, “I fuck with that. So what’s kinda the sitch with me, I guess.” Ian hesitated before looking at his husband then back at me. “Well we would love to foster you if that something that you’d be interested in.” I think for a moment before telling him, “honestly I’m down, I need to get away from this ratchet hoe of a case worker, if you can even call her that. The only thing she works is my last goddamn nerve.” Mickey and Ian take one more look at me then each other before Mickey states, “then I guess we have some paper work to sign.”

Ian and Mickey decide to foster y/n and so they bring her home the next week, everything was going smoothly… until it wasn’t.

Ian was in the middle of his work day when he had gotten a call from the high school. “Hello?” Ian said as he answered the phone. A shrill elderly woman answered back, “is this the guardian of Y/n Y/L/N?” Ian started becoming confused and worried. “Yes I am, is everything ok is she alright?!” He heard the woman sigh before responding to his initial question. “Sir you might want to come down to the school.” And with that he hung up and dashed out to the car and started driving. While he was on his way to the school he called Mickey. “Yo what’s going on.” Is the first thing Mickey said. It was unusual for Ian to just call outta the blue. “I just got a call from the school. Something about y/n.” Ian replied in a worried tone. “Oh fuck ok, I can’t make it to the school in time but I’ll meet you at the house.” Mickey said hurriedly. “Alright bye.” And with that Ian hung up and dashed to the school.

When He arrived at the school, he went to the office and told the secretary that he was here to the see principal about his foster child. She let him in after giving him a visitors pass. He walked into the pristine office where y/n was sitting in a chair outside the room. He immediately walked up to her and kneeled down to her level, “hey are you ok what happened.” All the girl did was pull away from him and he took that as I sign to leave her alone for a second. He walked into the spotless office and approached the desk. The principal stood up and outstretched his hand, signaling Ian to shake it. They shook hands when the principal spoke. “Mr…Gallagher was it?” Ian took a seat on the chairs in front of the desks. “Yes sir. Is everything ok, your secretary didn’t give me much insight as to what is going on.” Ian asked, wanting an answer to some questions he had. The principal sighed as he leaned back. “Mr. Gallagher, I’m afraid y/n is going to have to be suspended for the next 7 school days.” Ian was now not only confused but upset. What did y/n do and why. “May I ask why.” He asked, trying to maintain a calmer tone. “You see, y/n was in the middle of her Algebra 2 class and was talking with another student when she jumped out of her seat and started assaulting the boy. By the time the police officer had come into the room and pulled her off of the boy he was bloodied and bruised. Paramedics were called and he is now in the hospital.” Ian had to take a minute to process the information before he finally found the words to respond. “Well is the boy alright?” “Oh he’s fine, he does have a broken nose and a concussion but I’m afraid the damage might’ve been worse if the officer had not been nearby. Now I must ask you to take your daughter off the premises and we’ll give you a call soon about her assignments that she’ll need to have completed when she returns,” the principal stated.

Ian walked out of the room swiftly, “get up y/n. We’re leaving.” He said annoyed. The girl followed him swiftly and they walked out to the car and proceeded to drive home in silence. As they arrived home Ian tried to talk to her. “Hey what the fuck was that about.” But she continued to ignore him as she tried to walk to her room. Before she could get far, Ian grabbed her arm and spun her toward him, holding her in place by her arms and leaning down to her level. “Hey, talk to me what’s going on. If you’re gonna stay here you need to be upfront with that kinda shit so what! The fuck! Happened!” He tried to reason with her before she look up at him, eyes filled to the brim with tears threatening to topple over. “He-… he was talking about you and mick.” She squeaked out. Trying to maintain her composure. “So you hit him?!” Ian yelled as he tried to understand why she would do something so randomly. “NO! I hit him when he thought it was a good idea to call you and Mickey f@gg0ts!”

She yanked her arms out of Ian’s gasp as she ran to her room and slammed the door. Ian stood there speechless. He decided he would leave her alone and wait for Mickey to get there to see what they should do.

Mickey came home about 5-10 minutes after Ian and y/n did and that’s when Ian filled him in on what happened. She heard muffled sounds from her room and went ahead and started packing her bags. Thinking that they were getting ready to send her back to the DCFS. As she was getting the last of her stuff together she heard a slight knock. Just as she was about to tell whoever it was to fuck off, Mickey came in the room before stopping in his tracks. “Hey the fuck you doin?” He asked quietly as he look at the girl with her bags. “Packin my shit” she said plainly. Mickey knew what she was thinking and sat down on her bed. He patted the side next to him, letting her know it was ok to sit next to him. “Why are you packin your bags?” He asked her. “You gonna send me back ain’t you?” She said obviously. “Why in hell would we do that?” He asked with a slight laugh. “Cause I got in trouble again, people don’t normally want a girl that’s beaten up some bitch.” Mickey can’t contain his laughs as he looks at the girl. “I’ve been in jail for worse.” She looks up at him confusedly, “so you ain’t gonna send me back?” She asks timidly, thinking for sure that she was gone. “No, we aren’t gonna send you back. And after the way you stood up for us, I think it’s best that you stick around.” Her eyes widen at the thought, “you mean like you wanna, ya know?” Mickey smiles. She didn’t want to get her hopes up by saying it out loud. Mickey puts a hand on her shoulder, “yeah, yeah me and Ian wanna adopt you.” She doesn’t have any words she just hugs him and he hesitantly hugs her back. After a minute or two, Ian walks in and clears his throat. The two pull apart immediately, not wanting to be caught being “sappy”. Ian smiles at the two before he tilts his head toward the door, “cmon let’s go get those papers.” Mickey and y/n get up and walk toward the front door before Ian says, “and afterwards we can grab some pizza.” Both y/n and Mickey say simultaneously “OOH PIZZA!” Ian just laughs and they al walk out to the car. The whole car ride to the DCFS office had been filled with jokes and smiles, and she thought, maybe this was where she belonged.

[birdsbatsandcatsohmy]

An extension to the flashback in chapter 19, I really just wanted to right more Jason and Dick interactions.

Jason had been quiet since they returned from patrol, it was worrying. Currently he was picking disinterested at his takeout container, half paying attention to the random sitcom Dick had turned on for the noise.

It wasn’t unusual for the two of them to just zone out after a tough patrol, but it had been a pretty quiet night. Dick wanted to ask what was bothering his little brother so much, but he’s learned that it’s best to let Jason start this kind of conversation.

“Am I a good Robin?” Dick almost startles at the question.

“Of course you are!” Dick exclaims.

“Are you telling the truth?” Jason asks, setting his food down and pulling his knees to his chest. “Or are you just being nice? Because I want the truth.”

“I am being one hundred percent honest.” Holding his hand up in a Boy Scouts salute. “I know that when you first became Robin I was a bit of an ass to you.”

“A bit of a Dick.” Jason smirks at him, clearly proud of the word play.

“Shut up,” Dick bumps his shoulder, “I’m trying to be sincere here.”

Jason snickers but doesn’t say anything else.

“Like I said,” Dick starts again, “I know I was a bit of an ass to you. But that had nothing to do with you, I was angry at Bruce and I unfairly took it out on you. I’m sorry for doing that, I was the adult and I should have been better. Robin was never meant to be a legacy.”

Dick places a hand on Jason’s shoulder. “But I couldn’t have picked a better person to pick up the mantle. Your an amazing Robin Jay, that magic you said Robin had? That was all you Little Wing, you gave Robin its magic.”

Jason looks at him with watery eyes, then turns away, curling into himself more. “I guess.”

“What’s wrong Jay?” Dick asks, “Where is this coming from?”

“Have you ever thought about killing someone?” Jason asks.

Dick is taken aback by the question, but Jason barreled on before he can react.

“B and I were busting a child trafficking ring, and I recognized one of the traffickers.” Jason admits. “It was from a kidnapping case from when I first became Robin. He did awful shit, and he was right  back out on the streets doing awful shit to more kids.”

Jason picks at the sleeve of the hoodie he’d borrowed from Dick. “And I just, it would have been easy, there were lots of guns, B was somewhere else. He’d be gone and couldn’t hurt anymore kids.”

“I never told you about Tony Zucco did I?” Dick asks, Jason looks at him and shakes his head. “He’s the guy who killed my parents. After my parents died I got put in juvie-“

“I thought Bruce took you in right after they died?” Jason interrupts.

“He did take me in,” Dick says. “Just not right away, there is legal stuff that even Bruce Wayne has to adhere to. And there were no foster placements, group homes, or orphanages with space available. So they sent me, an eight year old who’d just lost his parents, to juvie.”

“Holy shit,” Jason exclaims. “I knew the system was bad, but that’s a whole other level.”

“Yeah, I was pretty angry.” Dick agrees, “Not just about juvie, but about my parents. I knew who killed them, and I wanted to get revenge. So at eight-years-old, I got some shives, broke out of juvie, and went to kill Tony Zucco.”

Jason stares at him in shock at the admission.

“I didn’t succeed.” Dick says. “Bruce found me, and talked me down. Talked about the difference between justice and revenge. I’m glad he did, I definitely wasn’t ready to deal with the emotional fallout of killing someone.”

“And now?” Jason asks, catching Dick’s meaning.

Dick sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I’ve thought about it. You can’t see the justice systems failing as often as we do, and not think about it.”

“I think that's why Bruce is so insistent on the no kill rule.” Dick leaning his elbows on his knees and staring unseeing at the tv. “It’s easy to say we should kill someone like the Joker, he’d certainly deserve it. Or some one like that man you apprehended. But where does it stop? Can you stop your personal feelings from clouding your judgment. It takes a lot for someone to get the death penalty, and there’s a reason for that.”

“We are not judge, nor jury Jay.” Dick turns back to Jason. “We help capture criminals, turn them in so the justice system can work.”

“The justice system fails all the time Dick.” Jason argues.

“You’re right it does.” Dick agrees. “But we’re infalible to, we make wrong calls. We don’t choose who’s deserving of death. Death is not equal to justice, and terrible people can be rehabilitated.”

Jason looks contemplative.

“What I’m trying to say.” Dick tries to get back on track. “Is that it doesn’t make you a bad Robin, or a bad person for considering it. Just makes you human.”

Jason shoots forwards hugging Dick. “Thanks Dickwing.”

“Anytime Little Wing.”

[dreamingofaizawa]

Violent Tendencies - Celeste

Sheriff! John Price x AFAB! Fem! Reader

~Small Town AU~ (John's POV)

***This piece contains adult content and is rated M for 'if ya ain't 18+ gtfo'***

Warnings: Mentioned sex, John being a horndog, descriptions of blood and violence, the usual for this series, stalking, harrassment, allusions to murder

Word Count: 3.7k

Author's Note: Alright people, it's begun! The next part is gonna be LOOONG be warned. Also it's gonna get dark. You're welcome, and I'm sorry (not)

Series Masterlist

Part One Here - Part Eight Here

Enjoy~

***

“I need you to find someone.” It’s a question you ask while you’re both wrapped up in bed, comfortable under the covers, the setting sun starting to paint the sky in brilliant shades of orange. Over a year has gone by since you’d beaten Phillip Graves to a bloody lump in the diner, and it’s been a lovely year of peace and quiet. No Graves, no surprise attacks, no worrying about your well being. Not that he really has anything to worry about, with you being the woman you are. The woman he fell in love with. He reaches up to cradle your face, tilting your head back to look at you. He could stare at you forever, you in all your brilliant red glory. His woman.

“Who am I looking for?” You spread your hand over his chest, your palms warming his skin like the sun, heat sprawling out like roots through his skin.

“Celeste has a potential stalker problem. I’m worried about her.” Over the last year, you and Celeste have become good friends. He remembers you telling him about the singular fight you’d gotten into with her in high school, just before juvy. It was stupid, really, a fight for high schoolers if there ever were one. She’d approached you after the trial along with three others, but Celeste made an extra effort to befriend you. He’s glad for it. You need friends, need people outside of him to be a support system. He knows all too well you’ve been a lone wolf for far too long. He’s been there, before he found his deputies.

“Tell me.” Anything you want, Tempest. 

“An ex-fling of hers. He’s been getting weird, calling with burner numbers after she blocks him. I’ve got a name, state of residence, and a picture.” He sounds like a problem. “I just need to know if he’s a threat to her safety. I told her to make a police report, but she’s put it off for a week.” You care about her. That’s what he’s come to learn, over the last year. You’ve grown incredibly close. You sometimes keep her company in her bar. He knows she visits you at the diner, too, nearly every night after her bartending shift. 

“I’ll see what I can find. You both work tonight?” You nod on his chest and he drags a hand up your hip, butter soft skin warm beneath his cracking palms. He’ll love you forever.

“She’ll probably come over to the diner after she finishes at 2am.” That gives him around seven hours to go find something on this guy. Whatever his woman wants, she gets. He’ll be damned if he doesn’t have some info by then, good or bad.

“I’ll be around. If he’s got a record, I’ll find it.” A year ago you might have told him he doesn’t have to work so fast, doesn’t have to rush the search, just to be polite. You’ve long since learned that once he sets his mind to it, there’s very little that can stop him. Especially when it comes to you. Like a speeding freight train is what you’d said about his insistence. You just nod. 

“Thank you. I’m hoping it’s nothing, but…” He watches the way your face scrunches, concern and rage flitting over your features. He knows that look. It’s the same as when he feels a twist in his gut, a prick at the back of his skull when he’s missing you a little more than usual. He felt it when Kate called him a year ago in the middle of the night without warning. He felt it when he couldn’t sleep a few months back, coming to see if you were alright with Celeste at her bar only to find a brawl had broken out.

“You’ve got a feeling, don’t you Tempest?” You huff, then nod. Yeah, you’re his woman alright. Same damn instincts. Same temper. You crawl out of bed, leaving a sweet kiss to his lips that he desperately wants to linger longer. But you have work, and he’s got a man to hunt, no matter how much he wants to drag your naked body back into bed and roll around with you some more.

Johnny asks what he’s doing at the station on his day off.

“The missus needs a favor. Gotta find someone.” It slips out without him really meaning it to, but he’s not at all upset about it. My missus. The scot nods, then clears out of the desk to give him free reign over the computer. He still lingers, though, peeking over his shoulder as he punches in the bits of information he’s got and pulling up the image you’d texted him to compare. Unfortunately, it’s insanely easy to find him. His record is littered with different sexual offense charges of varying degrees, a few restraining orders that have since expired, and an assault charge or two. A stalking charge catches his eye.

“This guy’s a creep, why’s the wife lookin for ‘im?” Wife. Mrs. Price. He likes the sound of that. Technically, you’re not married, but you may as well be.

“He’s been giving her friend a hard time apparently. Talking crazy, calling with burners, getting awful close to obsession. Real stalker shit.” He can hear Johnny’s exaggerated shiver, as well as the disgusted noise from his throat. Yeah, he’s right there with him. The guy’s a real piece of work. He’s a problem, that’s for damn sure, and you’re gonna be pissed when your hunch has been proven right. 

Celeste is there when he gets to the diner. She’s not surprised to see him, but she’s visibly more agitated than the last time he saw her. Hair in a loose updo, strands falling at the temples like she’s been running her fingers through it. There’s stress lines all over her face, exhaustion settling in deep bags beneath her eyes. This guy’s really been making her life hell.

“You tell her?” You nod, and so does she, and he delivers his findings. He was right. You’re pissed. 

“Fucking hell I knew this guy was dangerous. Tell me you’ve got a new voicemail or something.” Voicemail? This guy’s been leaving voicemails with the burners he’s using to call her from? That’s so insanely creepy it sends a chill up his spine. She yanks her phone from her pocket and taps through it, laying it on the counter on speaker to listen to the latest of what he’s assuming are the stalker’s little messages. It’s just as fucked as he thought it’d be. The dude goes on about missing her for a bit, then rambles on about needing to see her. It devolves quickly after that, threatening to come find her and keep her forever, he just loves her so much and he can’t stand being apart like this. Angry words filter through the speaker before he seems to calm again.

“You shouldn’t have broken up with me, Lessy love. I miss you so much, I can’t wait to see you again so you can be with me forever. I’ll see you soon, my sweet, then we’ll never be apart.”

Then it cuts off, and the silence that falls across the little diner is eerie. You’re the first to speak, rage flooding your voice. He can see the way your fingers curl into fists on the counter, your shoulders tightening. He can tell your knuckles are already feeling the ache, every one of your nerves ready to strike. If circumstances were a little different he’d have a hard-on seeing you like that.

“When did he leave that?” 

“Today. Got the call in the middle of my shift, saw the notification during my break. It’s the first time I’m listening to it.” You huff, and he can see that red fog curling at your feet where you’re stood behind the counter. It’s a gorgeous crimson, whisps swirling around you as your fury builds.

“Celeste, we’re filing that report first thing in the morning. This guy’s dangerous.” John clears his throat then.

“I took the liberty of starting a file already.” He watches you blink at him, a tiny smile tugging at the corner of your lips, your chest fluttering with your heavy breath. That fog turns dark, deep maroon as you stare at him like you’ll devour him whole. He’d let you.

“Have I told you I love you?” His chuckle echoes through the diner. He’ll never get sick of hearing those words from you, feeling the weight behind them. He still remembers the first time you’d confessed to falling in love with him, remembers being balls deep in your cunt and the painful way he’d hardened at your admission. It’s all he’d ever wanted to hear, knowing you’re just as crazy for him as he is for you, even if the confession came ten years later than the realization itself.

“Every day, Tempest.” And he wants to hear it every day from now until the end of time itself.

“Oh my god you guys make me sick. Get a room!” You roll your eyes at your friend, before getting serious again.

“Celeste, you’re staying at mine until we can be sure he’s not actually coming for you. I don’t want you living alone while this guy’s loose somewhere.” He can see the way she fidgets in her seat, starts picking at the dead skin on her cuticles.

“You think he’s actually gonna go through with it?” You reach over to her, grabbing her hand in yours.

“I don’t want to scare you, but there is no way to know for sure. I underestimated what Phillip was capable of, I’m not going to make that mistake again. Better to be safe than sorry.” She agrees then, willing to take the spare room on the first floor of the house your parents left to you. He stays until your shift is over, then drives the both of you over to the bar where Celeste lives up on the second floor. She’s the owner, after all, she would live up there. You both disappear into the place and come out with a large duffel and a suitcase, all her essentials thrown in the bed of the truck to be towed home. 

“You had her lock down the place?” 

“Yup. Double checked all the locks, took pictures of every entrance point. She’s got a security camera at her front door. If anyone tries anything we’ll know.” He’s falling in love with you all over again. Thorough as ever, covering all your bases. You’d make one hell of a detective, he thinks. Aside from the temper, of course. 

Getting her settled is a job he leaves to you girls. He can hear your voice as it carries through the house, rattling on about everything she’d need to know. He’s feeling the exhaustion, though, being awake overnight. He figures you’ll find your way to bed eventually, and he takes a quick shower before settling in. His eyes shut the moment his head hits the pillow, and he wakes when he feels your hands and feet like ice against his skin. He can smell your soap, your shampoo, it settles into the air around him and he breathes it in like he’ll die without it. He flips over to look at you, drinking you in, slinging a heavy arm over your waist to pull you close to his chest. 

He lives for these moments with you. 

Domesticity isn’t necessarily something he associated with you until it was happening, but now the domestic moments are something he can no longer live without. Waking up to your gorgeous eyes already on him, or watching the sun warm your bare skin as you slumber. He’s stared at you for so long every day your image is tattooed to his brain, burned into his retinas like he’d looked directly at the sun. If he ever forgot you he’d curl up and die from heartbreak. And you’re oh so soft when you’re battling sleep, mumbled words of love only for him and gentle hands grabbing at his body just to feel him. The shape of your palm is branded over his heart, where you always press his skin to feel its heavy beat. 

Your soft edge is his favorite thing, next to your volatile temperament. 

They’re both part of you, such a stark juxtaposition, but still fitting together so well. He falls asleep again to thoughts of you, the image of you in his mind when he closes his eyes. He sleeps the best when he’s beside you, and he’s seen the constant exhaustion slowly bleed from your body day by day the longer he’s with you. You’d said the insomnia is going away, your psychiatrist is taking you off your meds, and he’s happy for you. He can see the changes between a year ago and now. You hit the bag he’d hung for you in the basement nearly every day, all your excess energy being expended with him. 

It helps that he gets painfully hard seeing you lay into the damn thing. Most days he finds himself buried in your cunt after holding the bag for you, tackling you to the cold basement floor in a flurry of sweat and lust. That hasn’t changed at all, that’s for damn sure. He tuckers you right out, and the hot showers help bring you down, so that you’re out by the time your pretty head hits the pillow. Part of him wonders if he’ll have to tone back all that lust with Celeste in the house, but he figures it’s like when people have kids. Celeste is an adult, though, having the concept of privacy that kids generally lack. He doesn’t worry about it much.

Celeste finds her way to the sheriff’s station with another voicemail two days after you drag her to stay with you. It’s more aggressive, more angry. The threats are getting more descriptive, talk about locking her away in a basement as punishment for tossing him aside. More allusions to him seeing her soon, more hints to him coming looking for her. It’s unsettling, and he’s starting to feel that same prickle in the back of his skull that warns him something bad’s coming around. 

You don’t let her walk anywhere alone anymore. You get some extra usage from your dad’s old Chevelle, driving her to and from work since you have similar shifts. It’s another four days when the next voicemail comes in, and this one has everyone anxious. You listen to it, listen to the guy spouting nonsense about finally having the space to keep her like he always wanted, babbling about how he’s on his way to get her, coming to take her home with him. 

You’re all on edge.

Celeste is having trouble sleeping, and you’ve been spending days in the bed beside her to ease her anxieties. You soothe the nightmares away, much like a sister would. He’d have a hard time believing you’re an only child, had he not known you. You know what it’s like, not being able to sleep, stuck in your own head. And despite the volatile streak, your empathy runs like a raging river, carving out canyons with its power.

It’s a weekend, your shared day off, and you’re snug against him in bed with the stars bright in the window, moonlight pouring silver over your body beside him. You’re so goddamn pretty it hurts his heart, the damn thing swelling like the grinch’s old ticker did. Your phone rings from the nightstand, a ringtone he knows is reserved for Celeste in an emergency. The hair on his body stands straight up when he hears her panicked on the other end, frantic and crying. You hit the speaker and you’re both up out of bed while you try to calm her enough to speak clearly.

She’s in the break room at work, one of the only places reserved for employees with a bouncer at the door, trying not to panic. He’s here in town, showed up at the bar looking for her. She darted once she saw him, but she has no idea if he saw her. It’s no matter, the two of you are already dressed and you’re barrelling down the road in that Chevelle, John’s pickup blaring sirens to escort the two of you there. She stays on the phone with you, he can see you turn off the speaker once you throw the car in park and sprint your way to the entrance with fire at your heels.

He’s calling Kyle at the station, telling him to get the cell ready, and then he sees you in all your crimson fury drag a scrawny guy out the front door, two big bouncers close behind. Celeste is behind them, watching the whole thing go down while you shove the guy away toward the street, screaming what he’s sure is some colorful language at him. You’re fuming. John’s out of the truck with lightning speed, but he’s not quick enough to stop the guy from charging you. He thinks he understands now how you felt, when Graves threatened his life. It’s the same feeling he got when his deadbeat dad broke a bottle over his mother’s head, blood curdling in his veins with the white-hot rage. The same feeling he’s getting now, watching him beeline for you.

The man is crazed, focused on Celeste even though he’s swinging for you. There’s a sickening thud from the guy’s fist on your cheek, and Celeste screams, but oh you’ve been waiting for this. He can see it when you whip your head back around after the hit, eyes locked onto your now opponent. The bouncers aren’t quick enough to grab either of you as you settle into a fury he’s only ever seen a year ago. The red he can’t get enough of seeps from your very pores, pools at your feet and floats up in a cloud when the fire boils it into steam. You don’t blink, your chest unbelievably steady with your perfectly timed breaths, advancing on the guy like a cheetah on the hunt. You manage to block his next swing with an arm, then hit him twice with the classic one-two combo square in the nose then across his cheek, before he bolts.

He doesn’t even realize when he’d gotten close enough, but the guy slams sideways into his chest, and all he has the mind to do is hold him, looping his arms around his shoulders to hold him steady while you lay into him like you would that damn bag. He can feel every hit through the shield of flesh he holds. Celeste is shell-shocked, watching you put her stalker through the damn wringer. The bouncers grab you after a little too long, but not long enough for you to be fully satisfied. John hauls the guy bleeding and bruised into the back of the pickup, and once he’s secure he rushes back to where you and Celeste and the bouncers are all talking. She’s crying, reaching to touch your face, saying something he doesn’t care to know to the bouncers. He’s tunneling in on your bruised cheek when he turns to look at you. You’re beaming. And fuck it all, he’s hard in his jeans once the panic and anger subside. 

“Thanks for holding him. He was gonna run.” He has nothing to say. He can’t find words, his brain muddled between the fear and anger and lust mixing together. Everything around the two of you blurs out of focus, all he can see is you and that bruise and that damn smile, a few drops of blood splattered on your cheek. His heart feels too big behind his ribs, blood cooling after everything but you’re still red-hot. Concern crosses your face as you reach up to hold his face, bloodied knuckles catching his eye, and you’re calling his name but it goes in one ear and out the other. He can’t fight the urge to kiss you, and when you squeak into his mouth it sets his skin on fire. Someone jeers in the background, someone else coughs, but he doesn’t care. All that matters is you.

Until Celeste shrieks, that is. Both of you whip around to her, then follow her line of sight to Joh’s truck. The creep in the backseat has an accomplice, who’s opened the door to release him, and they’re peeling off down the road in an old beater. You slip from his grasp, already beelining it to your car, but they’re out of sight by the time you get the engine started. Fucking hell. You look just about ready to murder, but instantly soften and rush to Celeste when she collapses to the ground in a sobbing mess. He watches as you hold her trembling form, rocking her in your arms with soothing, soft words. It’s a long ten minutes before she calms, both bouncers returning to their posts in the middle of it all. She’s distraught. 

You’re murderous.

You’re real good at hiding it from her, though. No reason to scare her more, he supposes. You take her home while John goes to the station, giving Kyle a report to file away. It takes a few minutes, but it needs to be done. Celeste is in no shape to be reliving the events, and she needs you with her. He tells Kyle he’s not sure what comes next. The two could come after you now, simply for getting in their way. They shouldn’t know Celeste is staying in your house, but it’s only a matter of time before they find out. He’s seen this type before, these kinds of people are relentless when they set their mind on someone. Kyle says much of the same.

“You know, they won’t stop coming after her until they've got her.” Kyle’s seen things, too. There’s a darkness in his eyes he’d only seen a few times before. It’s a silent conversation between them, the knowledge that he and his deputies have buried bodies before. It’s a deep, dark pit, an extremely slippery slope he’s not sure he wants to fight. What would you think, if you knew?

“John.” He refocuses, looks Kyle in the face. “They’ll be after the two of you, as well.” No, there's no fighting. He’s slipping into a freefall. He’d made up his mind the moment he spotted you in the crowd after eight years, replacing the old sheriff at that podium. He won’t lose you again.

[codecan]

Hiya!:3 I posted this on my alt blog but felt like expanding on it here.

I’m doing a rewrite/au of a few creepypastas aka the ones I rlly liked as a kid.

Here’s what I have now

Warning! This is slightly based off slender the arrival and the idea of that whole slender mansion as a whole. Idk I was just rlly into that as a kid n im giving into whimsy.

Input is also appreciated!

I’ve only done jeff and sort of Ben rn? So uh I’ll just do jeff for now:) cuz it’s long alr..

Jeffrey Woods-Kennedy, age 26 (16 at time of incident), mixed (white/puerto rican), operating under a fake name-> James Davis. Left eye is extremely blurry. Cannot work in person and barely leaves his home.

^^ his face looks a lil off in the first drawing, just ignore that:) I’ll update it later!

Liu Kennedy, age 28 (17 at time of incident, due to birth months.), white.. straight (also does not matter), currently employed as a barista, has a bad time holding jobs but he tries! Everyone knows him as the guy with a nut job brother.

Jane Agguire, age 29 (18 at time of incident), mexican, works an office job. One of Liu’s only friends.

His parents divorced when he was a child, his mother remarrying soon after. This brought his new father Ken (Ken Kennedy was funny, okay?) and step brother Liu into the family. (Liu being 14 and he being 12)

-> his mother’s name is Amaia Woods.

When Jeff was 15 his Father accepted a new job offer and they were forced to move away

Jeff had always had issues with depression and a lack of empathy towards others, much like his biological father. He HAD been attending therapy up until they moved as his Mother had told him “it’s a fresh start! You don’t need all of that.”

The middle segment follows pretty normally, Randy n the shit squad show up and play bully HOWEVER this lasts a lot longer before the first initial fight where Liu is arrested- also by that I mean taken to Juvie on a simple assault charge. Randy’s injuries are also a lot less severe- only a few fractured bones and a broken nose.

Weeks after Liu is arrested the little boy’s (I forgot his name) party rolls around and Jeff is forced to attend. Randy n the Shit Squad show up again and attack Jeff inside for breaking Randy’s nose. (Everyone else is outside.) The Alcohol is only splashed on him (Face, and his hands and knees soaked in it on the floor) and those are the only areas burned. The bleach is poured on after he’s lit on fire to “put him out” as Randy said.

The police had been called by a concerned neighbor, Jane Aguirre, who had seen the fire start from the upstairs window.

-> More on Jane. She’s Liu’s classmate- specifically from his English class. She’s a top student and rather popular. Her and Liu aren’t the best of friends but they aren’t strangers. He tells her often about his family. She’s older than Liu by a year, yet she’s shorter.

Liu is let out of Juvie after the 2 other dorks (whose names I also forgot) confess to what actually happened.

In the hospital Jeff’s face is mostly bandaged as it wasn’t .. so terrible that a skin graft was required. He can hear his parents talk about him from outside the room, his mother was considering pulling him out of school because of what she thought he’d look like. Liu would come by periodically to tell him about what was happening at school.

Sustained injuries- Burned face/knees/shins/hands, an odd smile burned off his mouth that was sewn shut, limited vision in the left eye.

When he was finally released his parents had noticed his behavior changing but they blamed it on the painkillers he had been prescribed. He seemed completely apathetic to everything around him. His mother couldn’t fathom the idea that her son had gotten worse.

His Mother had walked in on him slowly peeling each stitch out of his face, when asked why he could only answer with “You wanted me to be pretty, no?”. She backed off and told his Step-Father, who offered the idea that maybe- just maybe- that it wasn’t the pain killers.

In the middle of the night; around 12:27 Jeff had snuck into his parents room and attempted to smother his mother while shouting about his newfound looks. When his Step-Father woke up he fled. Upon searching the house they had found Liu laying in bed bleeding out of two cuts in his face. He couldn’t, or wouldn’t, recall what had happened- not even to the police.

He did, however, tell Jane. The next day he texted her to tell her that his brother had disappeared after he attacked him and his mother. Jane told him to “just forget him” and life went on.

Years later, Liu is now 28 and Jane is 29. They both volunteer for the Big Brother/Sister program and wish to help children with troubled lives.. to avoid something like Jeff.

They hadn’t heard from him since the accident. Until one day Liu receives a text of nothing but an apartment address. He didn’t recognize the number at all, why should he?

Despite Jane’s reluctance he decided to investigate, taking her with him for back up. The apartment was normal.. until they had gotten inside. It was unlocked, like someone had been waiting.. however, no one was there. It was empty-Said for the walls lined with scrawled drawings of a tall figure and a map poorly pinned above a desk, the local National forest circled haphazardly.

As they investigated the apartment more they came to realize who’s it must’ve been. The clothes, the mess, and the phone left on the table all suggested it was Jeff’s apartment.

His phone was locked- yet like an idiot his password was easily guessable. The background was nothing of importance. His contacts were bare said for a few unrecognizable names and Liu’s own number, having been marked under “Liu? Maybe.” According to his calendar he had been attending therapy but he recently stopped showing up as shown by the endless voicemails left by his therapist. The pill bottles scattered around suggested he had been getting treated for depression and insomnia.

Jane, begging Liu to just let it all go, tried to convince him to just go home- that this whole thing was just nuts. Liu of course didn’t listen.. he drove her to the forest. It was foggy, they could barely see anything.

Jane had noticed another car parked off the road when they had pulled up, she chose not to say anything though.. why would that car matter? She just wanted to humor her friend for a moment before returning home.

As they wandered through the forest the fog thickened. At some point they two had parted on accident, leaving Jane wandering alone with nothing but the light from her phone.

Eventually, Jane came upon a cliff, seeing a figure standing on the edge, she called to it- assuming it was Liu- and as it turned around she recognized that poorly disfigured face. She was standing face to face with Jeff.

She went to take a step forward, as to pull him away from the cliff, yet suddenly a strange black fog engulfed the man and he was gone.

Jane was left alone.

-> Notes on the National Park. It’s fictional! Named (as of rn) Bradbury National Forest, having been named after the decrepit run down mansion supposedly hidden deep within its foliage.

[crueclown22]

because yeah. i always had a feeling that they’d choose miguel over robby in the end. because why not? he’s johnny’s favorite kid, and he’s treated like he’s his ONLY kid, and the show is focused primarily on miguel. not surprised there.

but it’s just pissing me off because Cobra Kai was supposed to be about Johnny being redeemed and becoming a better person (for the lack of an better explanation, i just woke up so apologies, just need to get it out), and ending the cycle of abuse. And yet, he still neglects his kid in favor for a new kid that ‘fits better’ with him. While Robby was homeless and then in juvie, Johnny was too busy with Miguel, and it was only when DANIEL ASKED that he even went to go look for Robby. And he even said no at first??

Oh, and don’t get me started on the fact that whenever Robby does something wrong, even just not telling Sam that Miguel had returned the metal or telling Daniel he was Johnny’s son, he gets punished. He gets fucking punished by the narrative. But others literally HURT Robby or neglect him or abandon him, something objectively worse, they get no consequences. But yet, it’s all held over Robby’s head.

The best way I’ve ever heard it put was in an article called “How Cobra Kai Fails Robby Keene”, that I read a while back:

“I genuinely can’t bring myself to root for the bond between Miguel and Johnny because it is explicitly at the cost of Robby. I’m always left thinking, there is absolutely no reason you can’t do that same thing with Robby? To quote the legendary Barney Stinson, “if you were going to be some lame suburban dad, why couldn’t you’ve been that for me?””

[ieatstarsforaliving]

The Set-Up for Chapter 4 (3)

Summary: Hazel is really bad at lying. Especially to you.

Pairing: Spider-Woman!Hazel Callahan x Classmate!Reader

Warnings: Mature language, use of (Y/N), mentions of violence and death, I don't know what else honestly it's like 2 AM

Word Count: 4244

Note: I know it's been a while, my bad- turns out this whole university thing actually needs my time and effort to pass or something idk. Anyways, this chapter is lowkey kind of boring cause it's the set-up for the fun upcoming action-filled bloody chapters so just bear with me. But since I was gone for a while this is extra long... at least for me. Next fic is chapter 2 of The Grief We're Given so enjoy the lighthearted fic for now... also am lazy so this is unedited LMAO so it might be bad idc <3

“(Y/N), I know this may come off as a shock, but I love you too much to hide it from you anymore. I’m actually… the Spider-Woman!” 

PJ dramatically pulled off the red mask from her face, striking a pose, earning a laugh from Hazel. 

The trio were putting away the equipment they used for the Fight club after all the other members had left the gym— and by that it meant Josie and Hazel were putting away equipments while PJ thought it was a fun idea to dig through Hazel’s backpack to pull out her Spider-Woman mask, put it on, and start doing cartwheels and other nonsense around the gym floor. 

“Okay, why don’t you actually help us clean up, PJ,” Josie complained, folding up the floor mats, “Instead of blowing Hazel’s cover?” 

“Fine,” PJ rolled her eyes before throwing the mask back to Hazel, who caught it reflexively just as it was about to hit her face. “But even if anyone saw me with the mask, it’s not like they would believe any of us losers could possibly be the amazing Spider-Woman.”

PJ threw a playful grin at Hazel who folded the mask and hid it in her backpack. PJ had been begging her to reveal her superhero identity for a while, saying that it would raise all of their social levels right to the top. Josie, in reverse, begged Hazel not to reveal her identity, especially given the risks involved. 

“But what if you just told (Y/N)? Then, she’ll fall in love with you, then automatically she’ll hang out with us more, and by association she’ll bring Isabel and Brittany with her!” PJ argued, still unwilling to drop the topic. 

“Yeah, and then the next villain that wants to kill Hazel will take the people she loves as hostage,” Josie warned. “In fact– I know we’ve been doing the self-defense club for a while and it’s been going pretty well so far, but Hazel has exposed herself way too much.” 

PJ groaned, indicating her impatience with Josie’s cautious approach. “Okay what part of this is too much? All Hazel’s doing is lightly punching and kicking a bunch of girls.” 

“Was it the backflip?” Hazel chimed in. 

“Yes, it was the backflip!” Josie blurted. “And we can’t keep saying ‘there’s all sorts of people who teach you stuff in juvie’ as an excuse anymore.” 

“But the club is working!” PJ insisted, flailing her arms towards the gym. “Girls are actually acknowledging us in the hallways, I’ve gotten 3 high fives just this afternoon, and girls– the hot ones know our names. And also Female solidarity and whatever. The club is working!”

“I know. I feel like if we keep it up, you guys might actually be able to take down some crime in the area.” 

“No, if we keep it up we can put our fingers inside of each other, grow up, Hazel.” 

Josie crossed her arms. “Whatever. It’s your call.” 

“I do feel like people are liking more than just the hitting and the tackling part of the club.”

The club had moved onto catfights on the gym floor, and it was no secret to Hazel that she always looked forward to these training sessions, particularly when it came to her interactions with you. All the punching, kicking, and rolling around the floor was more than what Hazel believed she deserved, but she couldn’t help but crave a deeper connection with you. And the weekly lunch meetings to make the ‘women murdered in history’ project weren’t exactly enough to get to know each other. 

PJ shrugged. “Yeah, I know, we’re empowering them. Duh.”

“No, I mean, seriously, to have a safe space like this, it means a lot to people, and I think if we took some time to spend a meeting and actually get to know these girls, like, it would be really important instead of just…” Hazel pictured the time you were on top of her, pinning her down with your feeble strength, bodies pressed close– so close– as you grappled each other on the floor, listening to the chants and cheers of the girls circling around. Her voice trailed off. “...sweating on them.”

PJ and Josie paused, then looked at each other with an incredulous smile. 

“Hazel, that is… genuinely a brilliant idea.” 

“I love talking about my trauma.”

Hazel squinted. “That’s not really–”

“-I literally jack off after every single therapy session. It just makes girls weirdly horny.”

Josie shook her head. “Don’t say ‘girls’. It’s just you.” 

“Okay!” Hazel interrupted, fearing someone walking in midst of the conversation that turned weird thanks to PJ, as always. “I’ll just email the group about our next meeting.” 

You walked into the gym with an excited grin. Fight club was the one thing you looked forward to in school nowadays— it was the only place you felt truly safe and comfortable, with only girl members (minus Mr. G, but he was an ally) who cheered you on with every weak punch that you threw. 

Hazel noticed you walking in and waved to you, and you noticed that the format of the club had changed today. Everyone was sitting in a circle, like one of those sharing sessions in kindergarten times. You joined the circle in between Krystal and Hazel, who grinned like an idiot when you sat beside her. 

“What’s going on?” You whispered to her, but Josie answered your question.

“So, we know that this club has been a place where we can feel empowered physically, but we also thought it could be a safe space and a place where we can open up and talk about our feelings.” 

You nodded along as the girls began to talk about themselves— Sylvie with her stepdad, Stella with her stalker, and Brittany with her jewelry business— and you realized that although you had been fighting each other for a while, you never knew that much about the girls. You listened tentatively to each of their stories, but to your honesty, you were quite distracted by your project partner, who kept opening her mouth, then closed them continuously. She seemed to be contemplating whether or not to open up. Your curiosity piqued, and when your eyes met with her’s, you encouraged her with a supportive look. 

Hazel smiled at your aid. She didn’t really know how to talk about the biggest secret that she held about her superpower, but your expression was so supporting– too supporting, that she found herself speaking out. 

“Well, ever since…” Hazel began, her mind racing to find the right words.

I’ve been bitten by a radioactive spider, 

“...My parent’s divorce,” 

I’ve been doing this, like, superhero stuff after school. I don’t even know if I’m doing this right, you know?

“My mom’s been doing this, like, mid-life crisis. I don’t know how that’s sitting with me, you know?”

And it’s just me swinging through buildings and beating criminals up and handing them over to the police who hate me because I’m a faceless vigilante but the entire neighborhood depends on me because some of these criminals are genuinely insane. I’ve broken bones, I’ve fallen through roofs, I got impaled once, that was fun— and it just feels so incredibly amazing but so burdening, all the same time. 

“And it's been really really dark.”

She took a glance at you, who was nodding through her words, returning her gaze with tender understanding. 

“This has just been really meaningful to me to, like, get to know some new people-”

(Y/N).

“-Who actually wants to, like, get to know me.”

You felt a surge of empathy for Hazel. You could hear the vulnerability shining through her words— it must have been hard to find good friends after experiencing such hardship. You couldn’t help but come to admire her even more. 

You raised your hand. “And I just wanted to say that I think it’s very hard to find a good and safe community in school for girls, and I’m really grateful to Hazel for founding this club,” You gushed. “It's really brave of you— and your friends— to take your past and turn it into something so amazing for us. So, thank you.” 

Hazel grinned like an idiot, fidgeting with her hair as her face burned up.

“Get a room, you two,” PJ intervened with a smirk. “But seriously, I just want to circle back to what Brittany was saying–”

“-I would like to go next, if that’s okay.” Josie raised her hand. 

PJ was obviously discontented, but Josie started anyway. 

“I don’t really like talking about juvie and everything that happened over the summer, um, you know, we get a lot of props or whatever cause people think it's so badass, But, really wasn’t. I mean, unless you consider getting hazed horrifically every single night, like, badass. I mean, obviously, you know, we had to survive the tributes, and you know, I did have to, like, fight people basically every single night. People were betting on us and we were given shivs and rusty pocket knives and splintered wood and, um, pipes as well.”

Hazel furrowed her eyebrows. No one’s going to believe this, She thought, turning to look at Isabel— 

–Who had the most distressed look on her face? 

Oh, Hazel blinked, shocked that Josie’s improvised monologue is working. There were almost tears glistening in Isabel’s eyes. She assumed Isabel to be the only one, then she turned to look at you— and your hand was on your mouth, eyes filled with woe. 

“And we had to just like, fight people, sometimes to the death,” Josie added.

Hazel frowned. This wasn’t good.

Josie continued.

“And I still hear their screams at night and that guilt probably will, like, always shackle me forever. And sometimes people still try to attack us in the streets for revenge, or try to blackmail us into doing bad things with them, but I realize now, I don’t have to be that person anymore. We don’t have to be like that anymore. We don’t have to just let things happen to us. Because of you guys. And I am just really grateful for what the club has become and… just especially, you know, from where we started and, uh…” 

Hazel’s eyes were leaping out of her face as she gestured to Josie to tone it down. She frantically shook her head, indicating that Josie’s speech had much more effect than she thought it would.

“Yeah, sorry,” Josie caught on, ending her facade quickly. “I feel like I kinda killed the vibe. I’ve never really, I guess, said that to anyone before, sorry.”

There was a silence that Hazel felt the need to break. This was bad– she knew Josie liked talking about her trauma, but she didn't expect Josie to make up the most devastating, hunger-games type of trauma in front of you. 

“But juvie also wasn’t that bad,” Hazel blurted. “I mean it’s probably way less scary than adult prison, and it really builds character–” 

You turned to look at Hazel who was rambling about the positive effects of juvie. Your heart broke at the sight of panic on her face– how harsh were the conditions of juvie that Hazel felt the need to protect her trauma? 

Josie cut in. “Yeah, okay, people wanna wrap up maybe or…” 

“I’m going through a divorce.” 

Everyone turned to Mr. G. 

“Whoo! That shit felt good to say.” Mr. G beamed, his leg stretched out as a free spirit. “Whoo, I tell y’all. Men… men need therapy.” 

Josie stood up. “Yeah… I think that’s a good place to maybe wrap up.” 

“What was that?” Hazel asked. 

Josie shrugged, putting on her jacket. “I don’t… I don’t really–”

“-I mean, you were just bullshitting from A to Z with no breaks in between. I didn’t know you were such an actress, Josie.” PJ laughed, playfully shoving Josie’s shoulder. “You should think about that, for your future career.” 

Hazel did not laugh. “Josie, you were the one who told me not to be ‘too much.’” 

“I don’t think it was too much. I think it was the exact amount of oomph we needed as a group.” PJ grabbed her shoes from the floor. “It made us look vulnerable but also tough.” 

“I don’t think (Y/N) was thinking that.” 

“Okay, How do you know what (Y/N) was thinking?” 

“I don’t, but I could see her–” 

“-Maybe she’ll tell you herself,” PJ said, pointing behind Hazel. 

Hazel spun around to see you walking towards her. She immediately straightened herself, touching up her hair as you waved to her. 

“Hazel.” 

Hazel gulped in response. 

“So, I was wondering if you wanted to finish the project today?” You asked, giving a shrug. “If you’re not busy. I know you’re always kind of busy and that’s why we just always did our project during lunch, but–” 

“-I’m not busy!” Hazel exclaimed, before mentally slapping herself for being too eager. “I mean, today sounds good. Today is perfect.” 

“Okay!” It was your turn to be eager, giving a nod before pointing to the girls locker room. “I’ll just get my bag, and I’ll be right back.”

As you slipped into the locker room, PJ and Josie slid towards Hazel with a curious look. 

“It didn’t look like she was angry,” PJ commented with a grin. “So, in conclusion, today was a huge success. Do you guys want to get chicken on a stick to celebrate?”

“I… I think I’m hanging out with (Y/N).” Hazel gaped, as if she couldn’t believe that this was actually happening. She was going to hang out with you. Today. Outside of school. 

“Right now?” 

“Right now!” Hazel gasped. “Oh my god, I don’t know why I said yes, I have to go and patrol the neighborhood–”

“-Ugh, Hazel!” PJ groaned, grabbing Hazel by the shoulders. “That’s literally all you do. You go to school, you come to the fight club, then you patrol the neighborhood. That’s all you do.”

“But—” Hazel sputtered. “-Crime–”

“-Hazel, Crime has been pretty low recently. The world isn’t going to burn down just because you miss patrol for a single day,” PJ countered, as if speaking to a child. “Do you trust me? It’s all about faith. That’s all it is. Leap of faith, Hazel. Leap of faith. Trust me when I say the police can deal with all the petty crimes. Go and enjoy yourself, finish your project, and remember to use protection.” 

Hazel’s cheeks grew hot as she opened her mouth to counter PJ— just as you approached the trio with your bag. 

“Hey, Hazel. Ready to go?” 

Hazel buffered, her mind still on the sexual innuendo. She couldn’t help but think about certain activities when you stood there with your signature smile, earning a cackle from PJ. 

“Sorry, we were just talking about juvie trauma and shit. She’s all yours.” PJ earnestly pushed Hazel towards you. “See you guys tomorrow!” 

PJ skipped out of the gym, followed by Josie who gave Hazel a thumbs-up. Hazel responded to Josie with a nod. PJ was right– it was just for a day. Just one day off to hang out with you– which was the dream– and tomorrow, she would patrol twice as hard to make it up. 

“Sorry, I just was thinking about-” Hazel faltered. “-things.” 

“Things?” 

Hazel felt the room get hotter. “It’s fine. Not really important.”  

“Alright. So, where do you want to go?” You asked. 

“Uh…”

Hazel thought about what PJ had said. 

Leap of faith, was it?

And she took the leap. 

“Do you want to come over to my place?” 

By 8PM, the two of you found yourself in Hazel’s room, caught in a fit of laughter. Pizza and snacks were strewn across her bed, and music played out from her laptop as you wrapped up the project— a lego diorama with a bunch of famous murdered women. It was quite inappropriate but also incredibly creative, and the ridiculousness of it all had you two in stitches. 

“I bet you 5 dollars that Mr. G doesn’t even have an actual degree,” You joked, adding a lego version of Casey Becker to the diorama. “He just showed up one day, and Principal Meyers desperately needed more teachers.” 

“And ever since the club, he’s just been handing out As to every single girl,” Hazel laughed, causing you to fall into a fit of giggles as well. She lived for your laughter, thanking PJ and Josie in her head for convincing her to skip patrol for the day. 

“Okay, I think we’re almost done. Just have to add the blood.” You grabbed the bottle of red paint and dropped some on your fingertip, then dabbed it around the lego characters’ bodies to create the ‘murder’ effect. 

In the process, you somehow managed to smudge some on your cheek, which didn’t go unnoticed by Hazel who had made a habit of staring at you all the time. 

“Oh, you got some on your…” Hazel tried, pointing to your face. 

You blinked, eyes focusing on her face as you registered her words. You chuckled in embarrassment, trying to find the paint on your cheeks and obviously failing. 

“Can I…?” Hazel breathed, and you tilted your head, allowing her to wipe away the streak of paint with her thumb. Her fingers moved delicately across your cheek, her eyes locked onto your’s. You could feel the warmth of her hand on your skin, and you melted against it. Hazel’s touch lingered on your cheek for a moment longer than necessary, and Hazel realized only after she had savored the view for a while.

She pulled away, breaking your gaze with a sheepish smile. Your cheeks were tinted with a soft blush, and you muttered a word of thanks before finishing off the project with distractingly loud heartbeats. 

The two of you stared at the finalized diorama in proud silence, taking in the project in its glory. It was messy and odd, but it was still illustrious. 

“Well, I guess we’re finished!” You clapped your hands to commemorate the ending of you and Hazel’s homework. 

“It’s been fun working with you,” Hazel replied, a little disappointed that this was the end of the project. What excuse did she have to hang out with you now?

You cocked your head. “Oh, don’t act like this is the last time we’re ever going to hang out together.”

“Really?” 

“Of course!” You grinned. “With Mr. G’s class, lunch, and the self-defense club, I’m going to be with you all the time. You might even get sick of me at some point.” 

I’m not sure that’s possible, Hazel thought to herself, really pleased that she had secured friendship with you. 

“Speaking of the self-defense club, I’m really glad that you invited me,” You continued, wiping your red hands with a nearby paper towel. “I was being honest during the sharing circle. I’m really grateful for you.” 

Hazel softened at your words. 

“And I hope your mom gets better with her mid-life crisis,” You added.

“Thank you.” Although you had complimented her, Hazel couldn’t help but feel a bit guilty about the sharing circle. She was lying to you– continuously. Was that a good base for a relationship? Not that you two had a relationship. Not that she didn’t want one. “Listen– what Josie said about juvie today, I think I have to clarify some things.” 

You shook your head. You had purposefully left out that subject not to trigger her– and you didn’t want to make it feel like she owed you her history. “Oh, Hazel, you don’t need to explain anything to me. I get that it’s a hard subject to talk about, and I just want you to know that I’m here if you need anything.” 

Hazel hesitated. She supposed if you didn’t really want to hear the explanation, she could keep her secret—

“-I mean what you went through was brutal and inhumane,” You continued.

Hazel’s guilt suffocated her. 

“But you endured through it. You’re so brave. And so strong and just… honest. Like I can tell that everything that you do is genuine. You make me feel like I can be strong too—”

“-Okay, I need to tell you something,” Hazel interrupted. She couldn’t handle it anymore— but she knew she couldn’t tell you the whole truth. She took a deep breath before continuing. “There are some things happening in my life right now that I can’t really… talk about. But I want to. But I can’t. It’s for your safety and I shouldn’t even be mentioning that but… you really matter to me.” 

Oh my god, I can’t believe I said that. 

Hazel swallowed hard and gazed at you for a reaction. 

“I do?” You peered back at Hazel’s reddened face. She nodded in response and it was your turn to be flustered, not knowing what to say. 

“And I… I want to be honest with you,” Hazel pressed on. “I can’t tell you the whole truth. But I—” 

“-Dispatch, we have a 10-90 in progress at the bank downtown. Requesting immediate backup and EMT support.”

Shit. 

Shit shit shit. 

Hazel quickly grabbed her laptop, which she had rigged to eavesdrop on police communications. She forgot that it automatically turned on after school. Why did it have to be now, of all fucking times?

“Was that the police?” You asked, confused. 

Hazel shook her head frantically. “No, I just– it’s just another, uhm, project that I’m working on, it’s fine–”

“-Copy that. Units en route. Proceed with caution.” 

“We have eyes on the suspects, attempting to establish a perimeter.” 

“10-4, be advised, we’ve informed EMTs, and SWAT is en route. Keep us updated.”

Hazel hastily began typing, searching up the latest updates on the current news of the town. She managed to find the location of the bank robbery— which had everything Hazel feared for. Armed robbers, high-tech weaponry, and injured police officers.  

“Fuck, I knew I shouldn’t have skipped today,” Hazel muttered under her breath. 

You paused. “Skip what?”

“I—” Hazel swallowed, inner conflict evident as she spoke. “-I think I have to go.”

“Go?” You paused. “Hazel, what is going on?”

Hazel didn’t answer. Instead, she stood up and grabbed her phone and her backpack, briskly heading towards the door. But you were faster, quickly running and positioning yourself in the path to block her way. 

“I think I know what’s going on,” you claimed, your voice low and heavy. 

Hazel froze. Oh no. You knew. You knew? How did you know? Had she been so obvious? Was it the back flip?

“(Y/N), I can explain–”

“-This is related to juvie, isn’t it?” 

Hazel blinked.

“What?” 

She stared at you, who looked incredibly serious, with lips pursed tight in worry. Hazel shook her head frantically. She wanted to kick PJ for even coming up with that excuse– now it was getting all tangled up with you and her hero work. 

“No! It has nothing to do with juvie,” Hazel assured, trying to get past you.

“You don’t have to lie to me, Hazel.” 

Hazel furrowed her eyebrows. 

I kind of do. 

You understood her expression as guilt. “And obviously I don’t understand fully what’s going on but if what Josie said was true and some things are happening with the people you messed with from juvie, then, I want to help you.”

You stepped closer and took her hand, holding it tight with genuinity. 

“Hazel, I care about you.”

Hazel released her breath. 

If you had said that in any other context, Hazel would have kissed you right there and then. Your hands felt so warm, so gentle– a bit shaky, as if you were afraid of what she would do if you let go. And your unwavering eyes– upset eyes that made it seem like her worries belonged to you too— And it took everything in Hazel to swallow back her words, gently guiding you to her bed and sitting you down. 

For a moment, you thought she would stay. 

But Hazel pulled away from you.. 

“I’ll be back soon, okay? Just please, stay here, and I’ll be back,” Hazel whispered. “I promise.” 

And after a regretful look, she was gone. 

“Hazel—” You called after her. “Hazel!” 

Your mind began to race– where was she going? All you remembered from the police transmissions was something about the bank and the SWAT team. You reached for your phone, searching up the local news. It wasn’t hard to find articles related to the current conflict— 

Masked Robbers Employ High-Tech Arsenal in Bank Heist, Defying Police Response

Bank Heist Nightmare Unfolds; Thieves Utilize Cutting-Edge Tech

Bank Robbery in Progress: Impossible to Arrest, Police Say

Police Overwhelmed in Ongoing Standoff at 1st Street National Trust Bank

This was bad. Bank robbery? High-Tech Arsenal? It sounded dangerous– more than whatever Hazel could handle, no matter how strong she was during the self-defense club. What was she going to do with these criminals? Did she owe them something? She was always writing stuff in her notebook— did it have anything to do with this? 

You ignored the questions stemming from your fear– you didn’t have time to think. Hazel was out there— and she was very clearly heading to an angry, dangerous scene. 

But Hazel was just a girl. 

And you had to protect her.

You had to save Hazel Callahan.

Previous Chapter: The Fucking Fight Club

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(Guys I don't know how a taglist works so just comment "Tag me next chapter" here BUT if you want to be tagged in all chapters, put "tag me in all upcoming chapters" on THIS POST ok???)

@valenftcrush

[batsandbirdbrains]

The one where Dick hallucinates Jason after his death

I know there’s plenty of fics like this but I’ve only found a few so pls send me links if u know any good ones<3 anyway here’s my little take on it

So after Jason’s death, Dick just starts seeing him everywhere. When he’s doing normal everyday things like grocery shopping, when he’s at school/work, when he’s brushing his teeth. There will just be a hallucination of Jason from when he was younger following him around, sometimes being nice to him, and other times blaming him for everything. Telling him everything wrong is Dick’s fault. Sometimes he’s sweet and nice looking, other times he looks like something out of a horror movie, with black voids for eyes and sharp teeth. Most of the time though, he just looks normal.

When he’s Nightwing, he does sometimes see normal Jason, but often he’ll see a version of Robin following after him. Chatting his ear off sometimes, shouting at him other times.

Dick never tells anyone. He’s fine. It’s fine. There’s nothing wrong with this at all.

The problem is, he continues hallucinating him even when Jason is back.

And Jason is the only one who knows, because when he first came back as Red Hood and tried to confront Dick, Dick just assumed he was a new hallucination.

“Huh, that’s weird,” Dick had muttered at him. “I’ve never seen Jay all grown up.”

“What the fuck are you talking about, dickhead?”

But Dick just smiles at him. Chats with him occasionally. Stares at him a lot.

Jason follows him the entire night, trying to figure out what the hell is going on.

“You don’t normally stick around this long, Jay,” Dick muses as he climbs through his apartment window. “Are you staying all night?”

“Dick, what is going on?”

“I dunno, you tell me, grown-up-Jason. God, this one is weird. I wonder if that’s what Jay would actually look like.”

Jason stares at him, watching him move around his apartment for another ten minutes, before he turns and leaves. He doesn’t know what’s wrong with Dick, but he doesn’t want to stick around any longer to find out.

He’s back two days later, the question of what the hell was happening with Dick eating at him.

“Oh, grown up Jason again?” Dick asks when Jason climbs through his window. He’s sitting on his couch, looking through case files. “Little Jay was just here. Are you going to continue his tirade?”

“What are you talking about, Dickie?” Jason is actually concerned now.

“You know, the usual,” Dick waves a hand. “It’s my fault you died. It’s my fault Joker’s still alive. It’s my fault Tim became Robin. It’s my fault Bruce kicked me out again. It’s my fault the last Titans mission went to shit. Bruce should’ve left me to rot in juvie and the world would be a better place without me in it. Ringing any bells?”

Jason blinks at him.

“What the fuck?”

“Huh, you’re not usually this quiet. Weird.”

“Are you on crack?”

“I wish. But Wally did get me some gummies last time I saw him. He said it would help with all the stress, but I dunno, it just made me kinda paranoid. Like, more than usual.”

“Are you alright?” Jason’s words are slow, soft, and he inches towards the couch where Dick is sitting.

Dick laughs.

“I haven’t been alright in a long time,” Dick says with a shrug. “But I guess that’s nice you asked.”

The conversation continues for another twenty minutes before Jason gets fed up and leaves. Dick doesn’t really answer any questions, just skirts around everything.

This happens three more times before Jason returns to the bats. He thinks Dick is fucking with him. It isn’t until a couple years later that he finds out the truth.

Because they’d all been in the batcave, discussing intel on a new gang in Gotham, when Dick snaps at thin air. He’d been taking about info he got from one of his contacts when he turned his head to where no one was standing and said in the most frustrated tone, “Fuck off, Jason, he’s one of my best contacts! His intel is good!”

Jason is standing on the other side of the room, and after a tense moment of silence, he tells Dick, “I didn’t say anything, Dickie. Are you feeling okay?”

And Dick’s face just loses all color, and his brow is sweating, and he has the edge of the table gripped so hard they’re all sure he’s going to snap the table in half.

And that’s how everyone finds out Dick has been hallucinating Jason since he died :)

[manjjiros]

okay but sweet post-juvie kazutora who goes to weekly therapy seeing you for the first time and giving in to his repressed darker impulses. idk i can just see yandere!kazutora so vividly !! stalking and kidnapping you bc he wants you all to himself <3

GROUP THERAPY

kazutora hanemiya x fem!reader

warnings: dark content, yan!kazu, stalker!kazu, implied sex, inaccurate representation of group therapy, manipulation, kidnapping, lying about condom usage, ask to tag

notes: cass this has been in my brain ever since you sent it. about 2.3k.

from the ASM: [he bumps into you as he passes by you in the casino, jumping in fear and dropping a file that had been confiscated from kazutora’s desk. the photos that scattered all over the floor were all… you. they were all of you. the ASM apologizes profusely and scrambles to pick them up.]

the smell of burnt coffee and donuts.

the low hum of old overhead lights, one of them flickering, making it a little hard to see very clearly in the damp basement of the church.

two, then one, then two, then three, then one; people filtered into the basement and sat at each of the chairs that were placed in a circle, though it became more of an oblong shape as one by one people pulled them back to be able to sit in them.

kazutora had gotten there a half hour early, dropped off by his parole officer who told him he would be back to pick him up at seven thirty, sharp. he sat in the stiff chair, hands folded between his knees, eyes drifting dazedly over each person that arrived and took a seat in the circle.

group therapy would help, the parole officer had grunted to him from the driver’s seat, give you a chance to talk to other kids like you. i’ve seen it help others. 

the therapist took a seat two chairs away from kazutora, dragging his attention away from the door for a split second to study him. the guy looked like he was just under thirty, some stereotypically upbeat type. he let out a breath, certain that this place would make him rip his hair out and have another breakdown, until…

you.

you came in in a flurry, worried about the possibility of being late. you carried yourself with the confidence of a small dog, shaking and nervous as you gently closed the heavy doors behind yourself to try and stay under the radar.

it was too late for that. kazutora’s cold, intense gaze followed every tiny step you took towards the circle of people in the center of the room.

your lamblike gaze shifted around nervously for an empty seat, finding none outside of the one directly next to kazutora. he was new to the group, unknown to all of the regular members, and no one wanted to try their luck with a guy who looked like he could be part of a gang. you didn’t have a choice, though, and hurried around the edge of the circle before pulling the chair back to sit with a breath. “sorry, i hope you don’t mind,” you murmured to him.

it felt like his chest was being squeezed. he wanted to eat you alive.

“it’s fine,” he smiled lightly at you, shrugging his shoulders.

you smelled like freshly cut flowers and the summer sun. he wanted to brush that lock of hair over your shoulder to reveal the column of your throat and sink his teeth into your soft skin. what did you taste like? sugar, maybe? were you as sweet as you seemed?

what was your name?

he opened his mouth to ask, but got cut off by the therapist clasping his hands together to get everyone’s attention. he said his name, but kazutora didn’t hear it, nor did he want to. any voice that wasn’t yours should be silenced.

he shook his head to himself and slumped back into his chair. he shouldn’t be thinking like that. those thought processes are what landed him in this shithole anyway, and now he was being forced to sit through these hour-long group sessions to listen to other people complain and whine.

it did bring him to you, though. he supposed it wouldn’t be so bad.

“... and we have a newcomer today, just registered this morning. do you want to introduce yourself?”

kazutora blinked slightly, rejoining the conversation and glancing around. “kazutora hanemiya,” he gave a curt wave, eyes darting over to yours to watch you smile.

“hi kazutora,” everyone in the circle replied, as if it were some kind of alcoholics’ anonymous meeting. maybe it was. maybe he was in the wrong place, it would explain the coffee and the gorgeous girl sitting next to him that he wanted to devour.

“so, kazutora, what brings you in to join us?” the therapist tilted his head, a mild smile on his face.

kazutora hummed softly, shifting in his seat. “i was part of a gang. i’m not anymore. i got caught doing gang stuff.” it was a complete bluff – shinichiro’s blood was still on his hands. it’d been years, but the blood never came off. “theft, mostly.”

he felt himself smile back at the therapist, calm and collected, before turning his sights back on you. you looked timid, shrinking slightly under his gaze before smiling back at him. 

“we’ll get you to open up soon enough. let’s get started, shall we?” the therapist was quick to move on, clearly wanting kazutora to not feel pressured at his first visit, but he didn’t care. he wasn’t impressed or even vaguely interested in what these other pitiful people had to say. it only mattered when you told a recent story of how you held yourself back from stealing an expensive purse when you realized it was missing a security tag.

a kleptomaniac, it seemed that was your only crime. well, technically, it was grand theft, but hey, it was nothing in the long run. something that would be sealed up because you were a kid when you did it. 

kazutora listened to your story as if you were a siren, and he was a lost man at sea, swimming closer and closer to you. he could feel the corners of his mind start to warp as he watched the way your lips curled around your words, enticing him closer. he wanted to feel you, to hold you, to get you that fucking bag you’re talking nonstop about-

the session finished with your story, and it would be a short five minutes until his parole officer would arrive to take him back to his tiny apartment on the outskirts of the district, where no one could reasonably get to him without at least a bike and a semblance of direction.

he watched you stand and make your way to the refreshments, your fingers dancing over the donuts before scooping up a donut hole to take a bite out of it. 

his feet moved before he could stop himself, and soon enough he was at your side, grabbing a tasty, albeit chalky, treat for himself. “good thing they give us some sugar after making us spill our guts like that, right?”

“huh?” you turned to lift your head and look up at him, blinking in surprise at his sudden presence next to you. “oh, yeah, i guess so. today wasn’t so bad. sometimes miki cries, and then we all really need the sugar.”

“that doesn’t sound fun at all.” kazutora stuck his bottom lip out as he chewed on the tasteless donut in his hand. you shrugged. 

“it’s the way of the sessions. helps to make everyone feel seen, or something…” you trailed off before throwing him a smile that made his head spin. “you’re… kazutora, right? sorry, i listened when you said it, but the session felt really long today.”

“that’s right. and you’re y/n.” he pointed at you with his half eaten donut, sprinkles caught on his lips, and you felt yourself start to giggle.

“right. it’s nice to meet you. will you come back next week?”

“have to. it’s part of my-” he thought briefly, mind scrambling. he probably shouldn’t mention juvie, his recent release at eighteen, his real crimes. “-deal with my parents. they told me i had to keep coming if i wanted a roof, y’know?”

“oh, right,” you believed him, falling easily into the idea that he was also just a kleptomaniac, just like you. “my parents were really upset when i got arrested. they got me out on bail, but enrolled me in this program. it’s helped, it’s a good thing.”

kazutora watched the twitch of your lips as you bit down on the rest of the donut hole between your fingers. you weren’t sure.

you shrugged and reached for a napkin to wipe at your lips, the residue of your lip gloss staining it pink as you headed for the stairs leading back up to the main lobby of the church. “well, we’re glad you’ve joined us. we should probably go, they like to give us the coffee and stuff, but if we hang out for too long, they shut the lights off.”

“right,” kazutora nodded his head and followed you out, watching the way your form blended into the shadowy corridors of the stairwell. 

before he knew it, you were gone, disappearing into the back of the church to exit into the back parking lot, and he was sliding easily into the back seat of his parole officer’s car. 

the interaction was brief. far too brief to have even been a hit on your radar. but for kazutora, you had suddenly become a beacon of light, untainted by the blood on his hands. 

he needed to know everything. he needed you.

in two month’s time, kazutora had worked himself into a point of almost-high status amongst the other delinquents in the group. he could play into his charm, he could play into being just a petty little thief who got caught up in the wrong crowd. the tokyo manji gang made me do it, he would say, crocodile tears dripping down his cheeks, i wanted to be just like mikey, but… he was someone no one else should be like. 

you had rubbed his back that day, and it felt like his entire body had been lit on fire. he pumped his cock holding his shirt to his nose that night in bed, convincing himself he could still smell your lavender lotion on the fabric as he imagined it was you on top of him. 

in two month’s time, kazutora had learned every single thing he possibly could about you. your name, age, your childhood home, how you walked to your college campus, the routes you alternated between to be safe. he loved to watch you browse in the high-end stores between classes, walking into the luxury districts and perusing the items you knew you could pocket but told yourself not to. he knew that soon enough he would be the one using blood soaked sticky fingers to get you whatever your little heart craved.

you wanted luxury? he could get luxury. you wanted someone stable, someone loving, someone to fill the void your dear old dad left? he knew about that too, of course, and he could fix it all.

in his head, you had become an angel, someone he craved to corrupt and ruin only for himself. the longer you kept yourself away from your human depravities, the more kazutora craved you.

two months was more than enough time to get in your good graces, to be considered a friend, someone to rely on, someone to trust. and trust him you did, giving him your phone number and letting him start to infiltrate your life outside of therapy sessions together.

you put your faith into the reformed criminal who had barely washed his hands after the crime, the blood and grime still caked under his fingernails as he rode up to you on his bike and offered you a lift to a nearby cafe after your last class. 

“funny seeing you around here, kazu! i didn’t know you liked to ride around here.” you giggled as you climbed onto the back, wrapping your arms around him.

“normally i don’t, but i guess it was just fate to bump into you here.” he smiled at you over his shoulder before bringing you to the cafe he knew you liked, the one where he got his favorite photo of you chewing on a strawberry pastry with the cutest smile on your lips.

he wouldn’t sleep unless he saw that smile on your face up close and in person, and as he offered to get you whatever you wanted and you asked for just that pastry, he knew his wish would come true. 

your little excursion with kazutora was fun. he was so sweet, so kind to you, reaching across the table with a napkin to dab at your cheek when some of the flaky pastry stuck to your skin. it made your cheeks feel warm, your eyes linger on his mouth. 

it didn’t take him long to offer you a ride back to his place, to check out his new living quarters that his ‘parents’ were helping him pay for. 

you accepted, like a lamb to the slaughterhouse, consenting to your own kidnapping as he drove you both home for the very first time.

he led you upstairs and into the small apartment, letting you in first before closing and locking the door behind himself. the place was small, well-kept, tidy. it was just a small one-bedroom, but enough for two people. 

kazutora was charming. kazutora was kind. kazutora had eyes that turned into deep black pools when he looked at you, when his hands landed on your waist and his teeth sunk into your skin. kazutora was a gentleman, getting you off on his tongue before sinking his cock into your tight heat.

kazutora cared about you. he definitely had a condom on, you heard him fumble with the wrapper. kazutora didn’t make your shoulder bleed when he bit you too hard, you had been overwhelmed with pleasure and had gotten confused.

kazutora. kazutora. kazutora. 

you thought only of him as you drifted to sleep in his bed, just for a short nap, you had murmured. you thought only of him as you felt something cold and a bit heavy snap around your ankle.

you had stepped on a bear trap without even knowing it, and now it had its rusty, bloodied teeth sunk deep into your flesh and muscle and bone. 

kazutora would be your everything, whether you liked it or not. he had made sure of that. at least you would have the best bags his fingers could grab, right?

[writerofadream]

Fortune favors the Bold ⛓

TDI!Duncan x Juvie Bestfriend! Reader ⛓

Chapter Twenty Five: He's like whiskey, she's like champange

^^ Duncan next chapter-

I’d like to apologize, I’ve been absent cause my friend was evicted and needed a place to stay and I was busy trying to help her out. Here’s a new chapter!

—

(Are you excited? This is the episode you get voted off! But it’s okay because I’ll do a ‘you both coming home’ chapter ‘spoiler: someone might be pregnant.’)

It had been pouring all week, you thought you were going to lose your mind. You love rain as much as the next eccentric teenager, but there comes a point where you're this close to drowning yourself in the next puddle you see.

You and your fellow campers sat on opposing stairs. Heather painted her nails while Gwen drew a picture of every single camper she had met, and then Duncan was carving a spear and held out his hand to you which was holding the various types of blades that he desired to carve.

Chris made an announcement that your mind didn’t really process because the RAIN WAS SO LOUD.

Gwen and Heather began arguing over Leshawna getting voted off. Honestly you were this close to accidentally dropping the knife into Heather's eye socket. There comes a certain point where anybody will lose their mind. 

That last challenge was horrifying. 

Your body subconsciously shuddered and in moments Duncan had his sweatshirt around you, but it seemed like he didn’t even move.

 

You smiled and pecked him on the lips. “Why are you making me like this weather?” Your boyfriend grumbled. “Because I’m your fantastic girlfriend and I make everything better.” You stuck your tongue out. “Mhm better be happy that’s true.” Duncan smiled.

Gwen and Heather both went inside their cabin, and slammed the door shut. You stifle a laugh. 

“Wanna go inside?” Duncan gave you a suggestive wink. You smiled, giving him another kiss before you ran inside.

“Come get me, Tiger.” You winked and he smiled jumping up onto his feet. “Alright scorpion.” You slammed the door shut in his face running to hide in your cabin stopping yourself from the giggles that wanted to burst.

—

The next morning the rain had finally stopped, but it had severely drowned everything around you. “You think you would’ve gotten into Noah’s ark?” You asked your boyfriend, genuinely curious. 

You wore a shirt that covered your neck (keepsakes from last night), and a pair of flared jeans that made you look like a hippie in the eighties, much to Duncan’s delight.

“Mm, I’m not sure. I don’t believe in things I can’t see.” He watched a chair float by, the cabins were currently floating in the water but no one else had gotten up yet. 

“Well what do you believe in?” Now you were curious and intrigued. “Well I believe in your strength. I believe in my moms wisdom. I believe in people.” He grabbed your hand and squeezed it. 

A small aww came out of your mouth and he blushed. “How about you darlin’?” He asked putting his chin on your shoulder.

“Hmm. I believe in myself and you. I believe I’ll see my mama again and I believe that if you put your mind to it you deserve it.” You declared and he laughed. 

“So much justice in that mind of yours but you never act on it.” He teased and you rolled your eyes.

“Because I was never meant too, honey we lived in the worst city, in the worst town, in the worst place. We were kinda destined to be horrible.” You sighed sadly. “But we’re going to do better than that aren’t we?” He asked, smiling. 

You nodded.

Suddenly you heard Gwen and Heather scream.

“Oh look at our favorite girls!” You smiled and walked out of the cabin briskly before falling into the water.

Duncan followed but he cannonballed in much to your annoyance. The girls were grumbling, which seemed all they could ever do. You watched a fin circle them. 

“Shark!” Duncan screamed, ruining your fun. All four of you quickly got out of the water and back onto the cabin, shivering from the chill.

You watched the shark eat the wood structures. “Have you ever been eaten before?” You asked, you knew a good chunk of his fathers punishments but not all of them. 

“I’ve been mauled by dogs when I was like six. Sharks, no.” He shook his head staring at the creature. “Owen!” Heather screamed and for a moment you thought the girl had an ounce of sympathy for the blonde, but then you remembered.

She was Heather.

Of course she didn’t have a heart.

She wanted the shark to eat the overweight boy and you knew your boyfriend (cough, husband, cough) would throw hands if anything happened to his third boyfriend, you smiled at the thought and Duncan raised an eyebrow and squeezed your hand.

You crashed into land and everybody quickly came off the boat grateful for the crash.

“Anything broken?” Both you and Duncan did a quick 5372 assessment of each other, which was fancy terms for a quick look over.

“Is anyone else creeped out about this island?” Gwen mumbled an anxious look across her face and you squeezed her shoulder in sympathy. 

Heather obviously decided to feed Gwen’s fear and you watched your boyfriend lay down on the sand by a bow and arrow. You laughed, and squatted down, kissing his forehead.

“Wake me up if you get hungry and we’ll go hunting.” Duncan grumbled before he tried to sleep on the sand causing Gwen to begin an argument, “We need to find food and shelter, we need to at least make a raft!” Gwen whined and without missing a beat Duncan pointed at you, who had made one as soon as you stepped on the island.

“I’m in love with a girl who completes everything in four seconds. Get used to it, sister.” Duncan said his eyes still shut in relaxation. 

“I’m not using that unless it’s made by a sane person.” Heather shrieked, causing you to roll your eyes. “I’m sorry, hun. I’d just prefer it done by a professional.” Gwen said sheepishly rubbing the back of her neck, a blush rising on her face.

—

You stared at the camera, annoyed. “I look at Duncan and we both think ‘Maybe juvie was the better choice.’”

—

As Duncan and Gwen begin their argument, you occasionally chiming in, you notice Heather walk off to find shelter. For the first time ever, you think, you might actually respect the diva queen. 

You watch her climb into a treehouse and you see a pulley on the outside of the door, your voice catches on your throat to be careful, and when she opens the door a skeleton falls from it causing her to fall backwards and scream.

One by one you'll notice huge bones lying around the area. There are dinosaur bones, as well as human bones. 

“Think we’re still upstream from camp?” Heather yells at Duncan. “I’ve been wrong before.” He says in his defense. You resist the urge to roll your eyes at the near constant bickering, half the time there was no point to the madness.

You all went back up the treehouse ladder to investigate the house once more. You poke the skeleton and are not surprised when you see the strings. “This is like Boney Island.” You grumbled, not enjoying how the skeleton made you think of your mom.

Heather agreed. “Unfortunately, the she-devil is right. This is another survival challenge. I’m not scared of you, Chris.” She yelled into the air hoping the mad-man would respond to her calls. 

Duncan and Gwen began arguing but you knew Gwen’s anger was just forged out of fear. You knew, Duncan knew the drill. You had escaped multiple prison’s and landed on islands before, there was no reason for him to be scared.

“Every camper for themselves. Let’s go Y/N.” Duncan ordered and grabbed your wrist, albeit a bit harshly and led you away, picking up his bow and arrow as well. 

Gwen waved goodbye sadly. 

—

|Trending on X right now|

#thecasualdominance?

#howdidshebuildtheraft-

#smartgirlfriendxdelinquentboyfriend

#fortheloveofallthingsmarryher

#weweredestinedtobehorrible

—-

“Can you help me with my form?” You looked up and saw Duncan struggling with the quickly crafted bow.

You lightly smiled and took the bow gently out of his hands and showed him how to do the form. “Release the bow, any target.” He told you, smiling. You nodded curtly and your eyes searched through the forest before landing on a distant coconut. You held your breath for five seconds, and let out for ten.  

“Oh where did that go?” Duncan grumbled, causing you to point into the forest. 

—-

You and Duncan were eating fruit by the beach as you watched Gwen try to dock on the boat you had crafted. You stifle a laugh behind your palm each time she falls into the water. Once she finally gets on she turns to look at you.

“Since you made the raft, Y/N you can come if you’d like.” Gwen made the offer but glared at Duncan. “I want your egg if you're coming.” She demanded and Duncan sighed, throwing the large egg into the grateful girl's hands.

You pushed the boat away from the sand and Heather ran from the treehouse screaming offers so you’d take the girl with you. You sent Duncan a look trying to convey that you were going to get off if Heather came on board.

Thankfully Gwen must’ve sensed your nervousness and began paddling away quicker than before. She had been paddling for around two hours before Duncan broke the silence. “You paddle like a girl.” He grumbled, and then you promptly punched him. 

Who said true love doesn’t exist?

 Gwen looked set on cursing him out but you spoke up when you saw the island again.

“Gwen, are you rowing in circles?” She shook her head as you redocked the island, “What the hell! That will cost you one omelet.” Duncan yelled, snatching the egg from off the boat.

They began to engage in a game of tug-a-war. “Get your hands off my egg, crazy.” Gwen screamed at Duncan, who’s eyes flickered with sadness.

You growled and stalked up to the two, dropping to your feet and swinging your leg under hers to knock her right down. You caught the egg right before it fell. Gwen pointed at the sky and you looked up. There was a huge dinosaur above you.

Duncan grabbed the egg out of your hands and began running.

“Come and get me birdie!” He yelled trying to draw its attention. Suddenly the large dinosaur swooped in and picked up Duncan in its talons, and flew back into the air. 

A hoarse scream fell out of your mouth.

You grabbed a stray line of rope and with all your strength threw it around Duncan’s ankles, and then the bird lifted you into the air. With all your expertise from military camp you scaled the rope, and climbed onto the feet of the dinosaur.

Duncan had his eyes shut, but he felt a hand on his wrist and they flew open. They softened once they saw you.

Over the harsh wind you heard him yell “Marry me?” and you tried not to cry. “Anytime, anyplace baby.” You yelled in return. 

Then the dinosaur dropped you, right into Owen’s arms.

Who for some reason had a beard?

Suddenly Gwen came barreling into you guys, and Owen scooped her up as well. “My brethren!” Owen yelled. But then a snake fell around his shoulders.

“Let me rephrase that… RUN!” he dropped you all to start running up the ladder into the treehouse.

You all quickly followed in pursuit. 

Gwen watched as you sat on Duncan’s lap, your stomach facing his. You wrapped your arms around him, and dug your chin into his collarbone, trying to feel his heartbeat. “Still here sweetheart. I promise.” He whispered.

“We need to confess our sins.” Gwen’s eyes flickered up to Owen and she scoffed. “I’m serious, I did it and I feel great.” The blonde smiled clearly dehydrated. 

—

“Oh my god, so you killed his dad?” Heather gawked at you. “You set her dad’s office on fire-” Gwen’s eyes widened staring at Duncan. You both nodded sheepishly. “...Yes, but still not as bad as what you did, Gwen. Even if that's your real name.” You teased, with a kind smile. 

“Or even Heather.” Duncan looked the rich-girl up and down. 

“My brother deserved it.” Heather grumbled.

—

You were staring at Chris dumbly. “Oh come on princess, surprised to see me?” he gave you a smirk and holy hell there was no greater urge you had then to punch his stupid face into the stupid ground and beat him until he was black and blue.

“Time for a campfire, my children.” Then he promptly skipped away.

—

“I’m going to kill myself.” Duncan grumbled as he washed the war paint off his face in your cabin.

“Honey, it’ll be alright. We always stick together right?” You hugged him from behind. “If I lose you tonight, I don’t know what I’ll do.” Duncan turned around and kissed your knuckles.

You smiled sadly. “Mi amor, even thousands of miles apart, I’d still be right with you. You are the keeper of my heart, forever until even the gods die.” You whisper and lightly kiss his lips.

“Plus, it’s not like there’s gonna be some plot twist or something.” a laugh falls out of your mouth.

—

“Tonight, there is a twist on the campfire. Since I lost so many interns in the production of this video, management said I’d have to let them vote a camper off. Which kinda is boring but whatever.” Chris grumbled, and Chef handed him the envelope before scurrying off. 

Chris opened it and his mouth dropped, his eyes widened, and somewhere in there you saw an ounce of pure and utter anger. Something that guarantees that the interns are going to have a hell filled week for the next couple months.

“The one who will be leaving us tonight is…”

Duncan squeezed your hand tight.

“Y/N L/N.” 

You felt something break, and it didn’t come from you. You looked at Duncan and saw his entire personality shift. He went blank, cold, and calculating. 

“HE’S OUR’S NOW BITCH.” You saw a redhead intern scream at you, before she went back to the intern-side of camp. Duncan nearly pulled out his gun, but you stopped his wrist.

“I love you, and if you don’t win, my love, I will kick your ass, understand?” You kissed his lips, and he nodded swiftly trying to withhold his anger.

You began walking away but Chris couldn’t stop himself.

“I’ll miss your face, along with other things, beautiful.” Chris winked, and a soft smile appeared on your face. You stepped in closer towards him. Then promptly punched him straight in the nose, and kicked him in the groin, he groaned and fell to the ground.

You stepped onto the boat of losers and began to drive away. 

But when has Y/N L/N ever played by the rules?

You stepped next to the captain with a fond smile, and quickly knocked him out, dumping him into a lifeboat and letting it go into the water. You walked back to the steering wheel and began to drive… straight to New York.

There was this anger, in the back of your mind. She was yelling at the top of her lungs, to have control, and like a calming wave, you let it. Being on that island, did you no favors.

You had it easy, food, a shelter, freaking Duncan. But now it was time to go back, to get the messy things done.

Anger was your coping mechanism. It kept you on the path you wanted, and the path you wanted currently entailed making sure that your fiancè would have his dream life to come back too. Anger gets things done, sadness does not.

[The camera zooms in on a small ring on your finger]

—

|Trending on X right now|

#OHMYGOD

#shutup-shedidntcomebacktohim-

#THEYMARRIED

#WHATTTTT

#imsobbingtears,streaming,downmyfacern

—

I’d like to thank all my wonderful supporters, who stayed with me, throughout the series. There will be an epilogue probably tmw, and soon I’ll start the second season.

I love yall!

—-

Bonus: 

Mick got out of his seat and walked over to the door which was currently being pounded on.

He and his brothers were in shock, their little sister just got voted off? Poor Duncan, he was losing his shit on TV right now. Since the show started all the brothers had been at Mick’s house for viewing.

Mick opened the door and his jaw dropped. There you stood, you wore a pair of black jeans, along with an old WSC sweatshirt which looked like Duncan’s, and you had a cocky smile which Mick could tell was fabricated.

“Miss me?”

“Well I’ll be a son-of-a-gun.”

------

tagged: @lostsomewhereinthegarden