#BLUE WRECK FOCUS HERE

[greenfrogartist]

Batman looking a little red there, isn't he @the-stove-is-divorced ? Must be a trick of the light

[tohruies]

i'll give you a piece of your favourite candy if you can tell what happens next ! ! 🍬

um 🥹 . what happens next is that . we . um . we kiss . um and . and when we pull away from each other, i cradle his face in my hands and look at him in distress, “yao, i think we need to kill femi.” he nods slowly, a bit concerned, but still takes me in his organic arm and uses his bionic one to propel us out of his house and to femi's location (yes he breaks the roof in the process) (yes we are still half naked) (yes we time-skipped into your plane of existence). he sets me on my feet and i run and break down the door to your house and hold you at gunpoint. <- gun that shoots out heart-shaped bubbles (they will kill you from how cute they are). you grovel at my feet, tears in your eyes. “coco, it had to be done, there was no other way!” i don’t care anymore. i hold the barrel to your forehead and then... the scene cuts to black before anyone knows what happens next. christopher nolan style ambiguous ending. period exclamation mark justify paragraph save as pdf upload file. aaand submit.

there, i told you what happens next … MAY I PRETTY PLEASE HAVE MY CANDY NOW 😒 /SILLY

[madamechrissy]

=͟͟͞♡ Healing Hearts =͟͟͞♡

=͟͟͞♡ Pairings:-Doctor Gojo x Intern F!Reader

=͟͟͞♡ Contents/warnings- Medical procedures, surgery descriptions, crazy sexual tension, eventually explicit sex etc. ER setting. Reader 26, Dr. Gojo 34, small age gap, work sex, complications, lots of humor, eventual drama and angst. Grey's vibes ✨️

=͟͟͞♡ Summary- You are the top Surgical Doctor intern, along with Maki, Yuta and Toge. You all are exhausted from passing the first month, sixteen plus hour days, days you don't even go home, all to get a top spot with the star Surgeon, Dr. Gojo, your resident doctor and boss. Or as you call him, Dr. Hojo. He's takes nothing serious but his surgeries it seems, and has a reputation for being a player, but he has that top spot, so you want to prove your worth! You just have to ignore those stupid butterflies he gives you, and those pretty blue eyes, along with his interest in you, and focus!

Comment to get added to the tag list

=͟͟͞♡ Playlist =͟͟͞♡ Masterlist =͟͟͞♡

♡ Part One ♡

Fuck, you’re exhausted, the first month of your internship as a surgeon was brutal, you haven’t had but a couple hours of sleep here and there, mostly on some of the hospital beds. Your bones ache, your skincare routine is barely hanging by a thread, and your hair is a wreck in a messy bun today. You thought med school was difficult, but it was nothing like this.

“Hey, you okay babe?” Your best friend Maki Zenin asks softly, you look at her and smile, nodding, she purses her lips, tilting her glasses.  “No you’re not.”

“I’m wiped, Maki. This patient injected cocaine up his ass.” She bursts out laughing right in the middle of the hospital floor, you cover her mouth quickly, looking around. “Shh!”

“Shit, forreal? I thought my case was bad, he’s been here eight times for hits of pain meds since I have been here, he keeps bashing his hand on shit.” She sighs, handing her files to the desk then picking up several more.

You’re both in your pale blue scrubs, Maki’s pretty green hair is high up in a ponytail, now your other two best friends from your internship come up, Inumaki Toge and Yuta Okkotsu, both looking exhausted along with you. Yuta’s eye bags rival yours by far, he slicks back his dark hair as you all check the time on your watches.

“Another sixteen hours almost down.” He says through a yawn.

“Tired.” Inumaki says, and you sigh, nodding in agreement.

“Fuck that, we need to throw a party.” Maki says, somehow still so energetic, and you’re so confused how it’s possible.

“Party?” Inumaki asks, he’s certainly a man of few words, but his violet eyes explain whatever anyone needs to know.

“No way, Maki. Fuck that.” Yuta says, earning Maki sticking her tongue out at him.

“Buzz kill, ugh. Listen, this weekend, we’ll invite some of the people from our class, we can invite some of the other interns too. Ooh, maybe even those sexy resident doctors.” She wiggles her brows with a mischievous little grin.

“Maki, we're too old for that shit now.”  You grumble.

“Bitch we’re twenty six? How are we old.”

“I feel ancient.” Yuta agrees. “Coffee everyone?”

“I have to stop by Doctor Gojo’s real quick, meet you all there?” You say, and they nod, waving you off as you head to your Resident doctor’s office. Dr. Gojo was the boss of you four, one of the residents along with Dr. Nanami and Dr. Geto. All three were fawned over by all the interns, except you. 

Yes they were gorgeous, and yes Dr. Gojo was positively beautiful, with his snowy white hair, his glittery blue eyes, his big grin. But you were just too exhausted and too beat to really fawn over someone, especially someone you really could not be with, seeing as he is your resident, you’re just a little intern. Satoru also happens to be the top surgeon in the hospital.

You go to knock but see his door is cracked open, you carefully take the knob in your hand, twisting it and peeking your head in, seeing Satoru Gojo’s head fall back, as he’s gasping. You look curiously, but his hands are up on the desk, as he’s biting his lower lip, his brows together, eyes shut. You clear your throat and he jerks then, clearing his throat.

“Um… hey intern.” He says, his voice clipped. You shut the door behind you, tilting your head curiously at him, his face reddening slightly.

“Dr. Gojo, I have a question about this patient, is everything okay? It won’t take very long.” You say, and his eyes flicker over your face, an expression you can’t explain, as he sucks in a breath.

“I um… can listen… in… fuck, fuck!” He moans then, he clearly moans, and you hear a bump on his desk now. “Oh, oh that’s so much better.”

“I… what the fuck!?” He flushes then, sliding back, and one of the nurses jumps up, giggling now and wiping her mouth, she has pretty blue hair.

“Thank you Miwa, you’re a gem.” He stands, patting her head with a smile, and she giggles again, as you watch in confusion, your brows together, mouth open. “I need to talk to her about cool doctor things, I’ll see you around later?”

Cool Doctor things.

Blow jobs on the clock?

How is this your boss?

“Yes, Dr. Gojo. Hi there!” She waves at you, as if nothing has happened, as if she wasn’t just sucking Dr. Gojo off, and he’s looking bashful!?

“What the hell is this shit? Lock a door?” He comes to you, locking the big door with a click behind you. “Not now!”

“I forgot it was open, shit. I’m sorry. Stress relief, you know.” He smiles down at you, a stupid smirk you’d like to smack off his pretty face, hands in the pockets of his long white doctor jacket. “Don’t you ever need any?”

You heat up at his husky tone, as you realize just what you’d walked into. It had been a long time since you’d even thought that way, not just with Med school but now being an intern, especially since you broke up with your ex months back. “What? Yuck don’t come near me.”

“Why, ya jealous.” He brushes your hair back, earning your glare. “You’re awfully cute when you are.”

“Jealous of you? No thanks, I'm good. I sure am not part of your fan club.”

Satoru pouts. “Yeah, and you’re the only one.”

“Yep. Anyway, I’m now disturbed.” You shiver with feigned disgust, making him snort a bit in laughter. “But I only came in here to go over Mr. Lewis.” Sighing, you hand him the file with a gentle brush of your fingers against his palm. “He's been a difficult case.”

“Fuck, the cocaine dude? Ah shit, it’s that bad?”

“We have him stable, but something about it threw me off, how could it be that severe of an effect? Colitis has lasted days now and no improvement.”

“Mmm, true. But it makes sense, you can’t just inject cocaine into the anus and… have a party.” A hint of laughter escapes from his lips before he can control it, earning a stern look from you, making him study the file more carefully.

“Be serious.”

“I’m your boss, you know!”

“Yeah, somehow. Anyway, I feel there is something underlying. Perhaps exasperated by the cocaine.”

“Up the ass! Hah!” He’s smacking his long leg now, chuckling, earning your glare. “Oof you’re so serious, sorry, carry on.” He gives you a mock salute, and your eyes are so far back in your head they might stay that way.

“So I’m wondering if he has something else, untreated, the man has no history of any doctor visits since he was living with his parents.”

He taps his chin then. “Hmm, good point. It’s possible. Have we checked him for Chron’s?”

“Shit, maybe, that would make so much sense too, his white blood cell count is through the roof. I’ll leave a note to run some tests before I go.” You take the folder back then, your fingers brushing, and it brings a blush to your cheeks.

“What’s wrong, intern?”

“Just weirded out by you, Dr. Hojo.” He snorts then.

“Dr. Hojo!?”

“It’s what they call you, I guess it’s true.” You say, raising a brow, and he is leaning close, too close. You can smell that stupidly expensive cologne he wears every day, filling your senses far too much. You try to avoid those eyes, even though you look at them all the time, they still are…

Too much.

“And you don’t ever wanna just get eaten out?” You blush more now, looking down as he stands up tall, so fucking tall over you. “Don’t be shy now, we spend more time together than alone.”

“I don’t do that when not in relationships.” He pauses, and you expect some joke, since he takes nothing serious but surgery it seems. But he tilts your chin up, and studies you with those eyes, lids lowering ever so slightly.

“Aw, so you’re a good girl.” He says teasingly, causing a warm sensation to spread through your stomach at his words. You shake your head and try to ignore the fluttering feeling within you.

“Don’t say that!”

“Turn you on?”

“No! Jesus. I don’t care what people do with their bodies, I don’t care if you’re a whole manwhore-”

“Excuse me!”

“But I just need a relationship, I’m not attracted to just looks, there has to be a deeper connection.” He studies you carefully now, so serious unlike his usual goofy demeanor.

“Hmm, a challenge.”

“What now?” You glare up at him, clutching the folders to your chest tightly. “Not a challenge, you psycho. Go get all the blowjobs you want, like Thanos collecting all those infinity stones.”

He grins, sharp little fangs glinting, and you don’t like the effects it’s having on your body, or your mind. You can barely take a breath. “You’re actually so funny, holy shit.”

“You don’t really know me. Aside from work.”

“You never take me up on any of those offers of coffee, or grabbing a bite, all you do is work Missy. All work, no play, makes a sad girl.” He taps your nose, and it scrunches up, making him smile a bit. “Cute.”

“Whatever, I have to work my ass off, it’s important, I have to make sure I get to scrub in with you. That chance comes at the end of this month.”

“Well you’re the top intern I have, so don’t worry so much.” He pats your shoulder, and you blink a bit. “Surprised? How. You graduated top of the school, you bust your cute little butt, and you’re intelligent, caring for your patients. Of course I was picking you first.”

“Oh my god…”

“You’ve ruined your own surprise. Act surprised when you find out, mmkay?” You hug him then, heart racing as you think of it. “Oh so now you like me.”

“I can really scrub in to a surgery with you!?” You couldn't contain your excitement as you leaned back and looked up at Satoru Gojo. He nodded, his hands taking hold of your waist through your scrubs, and that touch?

Does things, fuck.

“I’m so sorry-”

“You’re fine, intern. Stay a little longer.” You nervously step back, his hands are still on your waist, making you tremble, as your eyes both lock.

“I can never fuck such an opportunity up. Um… thank you though, that gives me so much hope, maybe I can actually relax for two minutes!” He smiles softly, nodding, his hands falling to his sides. “I’m sorry I…”

“Interrupted? Nah. Think you made me cum quick.”

“What!?” You glare again, and his smirk makes you itch to smack him all over again. “Dr. Gojo!”

“You’re so pretty though, I think it made her job quicker. Win win.”

“I’m out of here. Ugh.” You turn away, hand on the knob, and then his comes on top of it and gently unlocks it with a twist, you feel his hard body against your back, and you get overwhelmed in his office, damn near unable to breathe, as he’s clearly…

Is Dr. Gojo inhaling your hair!?

“New shampoo?” He asks, you turn to glare up at him, putting your faces far, far too close.

“How would you know my…”

“You always wear that one that smells like strawberries, this one is more floral. Hmm I don’t know if I like it as much, but it’s still yummy.”

“I… you…”

“See you later, intern.” He says softly, then finally steps away, leaving you reeling as you hastily step out without a word, leaning your back against his door, shutting your eyes for a moment in the quiet hall his office is in. You shake yourself out of it quickly, he’s just being…

Dr. Hojo.

Notorious womanizer, but the best damn surgeon there was, a whole idiot and yet an entire genius. And not your type, not at all, even if he’s gorgeous, you did not like man whores, or men that aren’t serious, especially not your boss, anyway. Fucking your boss in this industry would essentially make everyone question every accomplishment as favoriteism.

You sure weren’t going to sacrifice all your hard work for some dick.

You bounce away, heading to the little cafe where your friends are waiting, sitting next to Yuta who hands you a coffee with a little smile. “Thank you, ugh.”

“You’re welcome, girlie.”

“So, party?”

“Maki!” You three say, and she sighs, shooting her espresso down.

“Next weekend! Come on you guys, what do you say?”

“Oh fine.” You concede. Maki, Yuta and Toge all live with you, in your town home, since you could absolutely not afford it yourself, with the shitty pay of your internship and the college bills. It was left to you, but you still had property taxes and other bills, so they helped a ton. “No one better fuck my house up, I swear.”

“Hell yeah, here’s to a party bitches.” She holds up her little styrofoam cup, and you all cheers each other then, laughing.

“Party, hmm?” Comes Dr. Gojo’s voice, he’s standing there with Dr. Geto and Dr. Nanami. You all get nervous then, but he grins. “I’m coming. What about you guys?”

“No way.” Nanami grumbles, he’s very serious, his glasses slung over his sandy blond hair, his face exhausted.

“I’ll come.” Dr. Geto chimes in, chuckling and sipping his coffee, he’s as tall as Dr. Gojo and well swoon worthy. He would be more your type you think, with that serious yet fun nature, whereas Dr. Gojo…

“C’mon Nanami. You gotta, you gotta, you-”

“Jesus you’re a child.” You say, and Gojo gasps at you, Geto and even Nanami laugh, only earning Gojo’s scowl.

“You brat, I’m a good eight years older than you!”

“You look like a twenty year old frat boy.”

"And you look like an angry little brat!” He shot back, only causing more laughter to erupt from the group.

“Okay, okay.” Dr. Geto holds up his hands now. “Let’s be nice, kids.”

“Kids! Suguru I’m older than you.” Gojo says with a glare.

“Like six months. Anyway, we’ll be there at this party, text us the details? We’d love to unwind.” Dr. Geto says, and Maki jumps up now, as you and Gojo are glaring at each other across your table. “Got it, thank you Maki.”

“Of course, we’ll invite both of your interns too. It’ll be much needed after hell month.” You just sit there, as they all talk, and Gojo is all pouty, like a baby. You peek at your phone now, seeing a text from your shitty ex, your face falls.

“Everything okay?” Maki asks softly, and you sigh, nodding.

“Just the ex.” You whisper back.

“Ex huh?” Satoru has somehow gotten behind you, leaning over, you smack at his hand then, glaring. “What, I wanna know!”

“You’re too fucking much sometimes. Ugh.” You stand up then, slinking past him. “I’m headed to get changed and then I’m leaving. See you all at home?” They all nod, eyeing you and Satoru curiously, you wave at the Doctors then head out.

Ugh, along with Satoru just being… weird and annoying, and your ex? He was a toxic, needy mess. He’d left you because you didn’t have enough time for him, and maybe you really didn’t, how could you have a relationship until your internship was finished? The first week none of you even left the hospital, sleeping in bunk beds and showering there.

But he constantly needed you, made you feel guilty, would fuck with your alarms and everything. Thank God he was long gone, even if he was annoying you currently, you delete his messages, heading to the locker room and hearing steps. You look back curiously to see Satoru holding the door open for you.

“What are you doing?”

“I am sorry, that was rude of me.”

“Yeah, well, what’s new.” You both walk into the locker room now, Satoru’s shrugging off his white lab coat, your cheeks heat up while you slip off your scrub top, it was normal to change in front of everyone, you all had co op locker rooms and showers even, all of you took years of anatomy, the human body was nothing really but parts.

But as you feel his eyes on you, when you’re down to just a black lace bra and a pair of boy shorts, you tense a bit, looking at him, shirtless, his lips parted as he looks at you. “I am sorry I know I annoy you, Miss perfect.”

“I’m no Miss perfect. I guess I have a lot to prove.” You say softly, trying not to drink in his rippling muscles, perfect well defined torso, cuts low where he’s now sliding up a pair of dark blue jeans.

His blue eyes fixate on you as he does, as you’re sliding on a pair of jeans yourself, buttoning them with trembling hands. “I had a lot to prove once too. I do understand.”

“You’re being serious?” You tease, earning a little smile, as he slides a black long sleeve shirt over his head. You get flustered as you realize your nipples are pressed against the cups of your bra, sliding your shirt and then a jacket on yourself, sitting at the bench to slide on your black boots.

“I can be serious sometimes, I just think there’s enough death, sadness, and depression in this career. Why not just try to have some fun? Otherwise, it’ll just consume you.” He says softly, in that husky voice of his, so sexy it alone could wreck someone. But his words…

“That makes sense.” You say softly now, standing as he does, grabbing your purse and locking up your locker, spinning the combination, at the same time he grabs his keys and wallet. “So you try to… brighten up things.”

“Yeah, someone has to.” He walks to you then, tapping your nose once more. “You’re too serious, you’ll have to lighten up, or this career will wreck you.”

You nod then, carefully, realizing perhaps this slutty, silly doctor had a lot more to him, than just being the perfect surgeon. “I’ll take that advice. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, also…” He leans forward as you all are stepping out of the locker room, headed toward the automatic glass doors, and you look at him curiously. “Nice panties.”

“Oh fuck you, Dr. Hojo!” You glare now, shoving at him, as he heads to his mercedes benz, and you’re in your ancient SUV that sounds like a beast.

“Night-night, intern.” He shoots you two fingers, sliding into his fancy car with blacked out windows. You roll your eyes, putting your car in gear.

What a day.

Part Two

[sunday-bug]

Riding Bucky

Pairing: Congressman/Motorcycle Riding Bucky x fem reader

Content: pure filth

18+ Minors DNI (NSFW)

🖤

Synopsis: Bucky enjoys a motorcycle ride out of the city with his favourite girl. What happens in the woods, stays in the woods.

Hope you all enjoy this one!

❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

You hear an engine rev outside of your apartment and just know it’s him. A shiver runs up your spine in excitement.

Bucky mentioned his motorcycle on your first date, and you’ve been dying for him to take you on a ride since. This weekend’s weather was the perfect excuse. You picked out the most sensible outfit you could while still feeling sexy: blue jeans, a black silk tank, and your beloved brown leather jacket. You swipe your favorite red lipstick over your lips and fluff your hair.

Three knocks rap on your door and you answer.

“Wow. You look gorgeous and ready to ride,” Bucky says while hugging you tightly. He’s also in a leather jacket, black, with black jeans and boots. You’re used to seeing him in a suit and tie lately for his congressional duties, so this was hot. “I have a helmet for you on the bike. You ready?”

“Yes!” You try not to squeal with excitement, but fail. Bucky grabs your hand and squeezes, leading you to the elevator. Once the doors close he looks at you and smiles, “I’ve been looking forward to this all week.”

“Me too,” you reply with a quick peck on his cheek.

The elevator doors open and you walk out into the warm mid morning air. Bucky takes the spare helmet from the back of the bike and walks over to you.

“Gotta protect your pretty little head,” he says while clipping the chin strap closed. “Feel ok?”

You nod in response, knowing your hair will be a windblown wreck later. Bucky reaches for your hand again and leads you to the bike, helping you on. Once you’re settled, he puts his own helmet on and straddles one leg over the bike before seating himself and revving the engine to life. You place your arms around his waist and try not to focus on how good the combination of his muscled body and the vibration from the engine feels against you.

“Ready, doll?” He asks over the noise.

You give him a thumbs up and you’re off. The wind feels so good that you don’t care about your hair anymore. He drives for miles until you’re outside of the city on a long stretch of road surrounded by trees. Bucky reaches back to touch your thigh reassuringly as you go around a sharp bend in the road. He squeezes instinctively, and you feel your body respond. You squeeze your arms around him tighter and get the cheeky idea to move a hand lower to the crotch of his jeans. He grips your thigh harder and slows down the motorcycle, pulling off into a secluded woody area. Once the bike is turned off, Bucky stands up and helps you off, removing your helmet and his.

“You trying to make me wreck?” He asks with a smirk.

“I’m sorry,” you reply sheepishly.

“Don’t be. I liked it,” he says, taking a step towards you. You feel your stomach flutter and your thighs clench together. He traces a line with his flesh hand down your cheek to the outline of your breast.

“Buck, what are you doing? We’re in public,” you giggle, pretending to escape his touch.

Bucky looks around the deserted area, “I don’t see anyone,” he grabs your ass with his metal hand and whispers in your ear, “I can’t even see the road from here.”

You moan softly and can’t deny just how much you want him to take you now. You reach down under the waistband of his jeans and feel that he’s already hard for you.

“Where should we…” you trail off as you see Bucky eyeing the motorcycle with intensity. You feel precum on your fingers and continue to work him under his jeans. He groans, “On the bike.”

Your entire body lights up at the idea and you both rush back to it. Bucky sits down on the seat and gestures to you to sit in his lap, “I wanna see your pretty face while I fuck you.”

You strip your jeans off and lay them over the handlebars, revealing a lacy blue thong. You start to take it off before Bucky interrupts you, “Keep it on, baby.” You notice he’s taken his cock fully out of his jeans and is stroking it while watching you undress. You feel yourself get even wetter as you walk over to him and straddle yourself over his thick thighs.

“These new?” He gestures to your underwear as he grinds his hips up into you, creating a delicious friction.

“Mhmm,” you whisper, running your fingers through his hair, “I thought you’d like them.”

“I’m going to make a mess of them,” he growls, sliding the blue lace to the side to feel your slickness. You loved when Bucky talked dirty. He slid a flesh finger into you and cupped your clit with his hand, letting you ride on it. “You’re naughty today, huh? You nervous someone might drive down here and see you coming all over my hand?”

His comment makes you snap. You remove his hand and put the slicked finger into your mouth, tasting your own arousal and sucking. Bucky’s cock jumps at the feeling, and he picks you up and sets you down on top of it, pushing your underwear to the side and guiding himself inside until you’re full of him.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” Bucky sighs into the hollow of your neck before nipping and kissing you there. He moves his hands up your shirt and pinches your nipples slightly. You let out a whimper.

“I love watching you whine for me, doll,” he says, picking up speed.

You look down and see his wet cock fucking you and feel your pussy clench, “I love watching you fuck me, Buck.”

“Oh, God,” he groans, “We should have gone for a ride sooner.” He lets out an exasperated laugh.

You close your eyes and tilt your head back, focusing on how good he’s making you feel. A slight breeze catches your bare skin and you shiver. “I’m so close, baby,” you cry out.

“Fuck, me too,” he yelps. You watch the line between his eyebrows deepen in concentration as he grips your ass and feel yourself let go on him, crying out.

“Good girl,” he looks into your eyes as you come and doesn’t break contact. His pupils dilate slightly and his movements slow.

“Where should I?” He asks gently.

“In me. Please,” you reply, spent.

You feel his warmth fill you as he groans. You stand up after a few seconds and feel some of it spill into your underwear.

“I’ll clean you up when we get back,” he says, pulling you in for a deep kiss. “I promise.”

“Can we do this every weekend?” You ask and he laughs.

[inkedinshadows]

Under the Summer Sun

Pairing: Azriel x Summer Court!reader

Summary: Azriel's mate takes him on a little vacation in the Summer Court, where she introduces him to a shocking tradition of her home court.

Warnings: none

Word count: 3.5k

A/N: I have one thing to say about this one, and it's that I had no idea where I was going when I started writing. I had a general idea, and that was it. Everything else came to me thanks to little sleep, lot of coffee, too many classes, and missing summer. This fic is really silly and I have no idea how it became this long tbh

@azrielappreciationweek

Azriel had been to the Summer Court many times, but never on vacation. He had gone on missions, of course, and to check in with his informants stationed there. Then there was that one time with his family, which had resulted in a wrecked building and Cassian's consequent ban. The last time he'd been here, it was to defend Adriata against Hybern.

And now, he was here with you. Somehow, you had managed to convince him to take a whole week off. Maybe it had something to do with you batting your long lashes at him, knowing he could never say no when you looked so cute. Or perhaps it was because you had already talked to Rhys, who had agreed that his brother needed some time to relax.

Either way, Azriel was glad you had convinced him. You were staying in your family's vacation house in a little town south of Adriata. The first day was spent in bed, cuddling and making love, getting up only to eat—as you had done years ago after accepting the mating bond. On the second day, you showed him the town and the places where you had grown up. But today would be a surprise. You had refused to tell him exactly what you'd be doing, claiming only that it was a common custom in the Summer Court.

“Are you ready, my love?”

Your voice came from behind the bathroom door, and Azriel glanced at his reflection in the mirror one last time. His half-naked self stared back. You had given him a simple piece of clothing to put on, and you’d been very clear about wearing only that.

Azriel was confused.

It looked like underwear, but it was too long, reaching his mid-thigh, and it was a bit looser around his legs. The deep blue fabric was unusual—soft yet a bit thicker than his regular underwear, and elastic. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but he didn’t understand why you wanted him to wear such a thing. It wasn’t alluring or anything like that. At least, he didn’t think it was.

With a sigh, he opened the door. “Sweetheart, I’m not sure—”

His words died on his tongue as his eyes settled on you. Standing in the center of the bedroom, you were wearing a new set of lingerie he had never seen before. The fabric seemed similar to the one he was wearing, but yours was a shade of cerulean blue that complemented your dark skin. It hugged your curves perfectly, tight enough to cover yet revealing in all the right ways.

“So?” you asked with a smile, spinning around so he could see you even better. “What do you think?”

Azriel closed the distance between you in two long strides, and his hands immediately found your exposed waist.

“You're breathtaking, my love,” he murmured, his eyes scanning you from head to toe. He could never get enough of you—your smooth skin, your soft body, your scent. And whenever you surprised him with something like this, his head felt as if it were spinning.

“I'm glad you like it.” You looked down at your body, brushing your fingertips over the hem of your bra. Azriel wanted to kiss the spot where the fabric met your skin. “It's been years since I last got to wear one of these.”

He had to suppress his rising desire to focus on your words. He frowned at the hint of melancholy that laced your tone. “What do you mean? You can wear it whenever you want.” His fingers pressed slightly into your flesh as he leaned down to whisper directly in your ear. “You look ravishing, sweetheart.”

He felt your body react to his words and touch as it always did—relaxing in his hold, leaning imperceptibly closer. But there was a playful smile on your lips when you asked, “What do you think this is, Az?”

Azriel's frown deepened. “New underwear?”

You hummed, amusement glinting in your eyes. But instead of answering, you slipped out of his grasp. “Let me take a good look at you.”

He grew more confused by the second. You studied him, eyes focused on what looked more like short pants than boxers. Yet there was no hint of desire on your face. Your gaze didn't roam over his body with that intensity that made heat bloom in his lower stomach. You didn't bite your bottom lip, didn't reach out to touch the bare muscles of his chest, and your breath didn't catch as it always did when you wanted him.

“You look so handsome,” you said eventually. Your gaze finally met his, and your amused smile widened at his confusion. “We can go now.”

Azriel blinked, but you were already heading for the door, grabbing a bag from the floor on your way out.

He immediately trailed after you, following you downstairs. His shadows swarmed around him, flying over to tangle in the ends of your hair as if trying to coax an answer out of you. But even they couldn't read minds, and you didn't offer an explanation.

“Go where?” he questioned, watching you put your slippers on. What did you even need shoes for?

“The beach,” you answered, as if it were obvious.

Azriel just stared at you. He was waiting for a punchline or a joke, because surely you couldn't be serious. But when you arched a brow, that smirk still playing on your lips, he realized you weren't joking.

“What do you mean?” he asked then.

“This is not underwear, Az,” you finally explained in an amused tone. “They're swimsuits. Mine's called a bikini, and yours are swim trunks.” You lifted the bag in your hand as if to prove your point. “I have beach towels. We're going to the beach.”

He gaped at you. “You really mean to tell me you want to go outside wearing…” He glanced down at himself, then at you. “Just this?” he finished.

“That's exactly what I'm telling you.” You shrugged, as if the thought of walking around with just a scrap of clothing didn't bother you at all.

“There's no way you're going out dressed like that,” he said firmly. “You're basically naked.”

“I'm not naked!” You sounded outraged, but he could see you were trying not to laugh. “I'm wearing a bikini.”

Azriel crossed his arms. He had never once told you what you could or couldn't wear, and he didn't want to start now. But a revealing dress or a plunging neckline were different from… this. The thought of everyone seeing you with nothing more than two small pieces of fabric made his jaw clench.

“How is it any different from going out wearing underwear?” he pressed.

You opened your mouth, then closed it again, falling silent for a moment. “I don't know,” you mumbled. “It's just socially acceptable here to go to the beach like this.”

He thought he was getting through to you, that he just needed to push a bit more and then you'd see how inappropriate it was. Instead, you stood straighter again and adjusted the bag on your shoulder.

“Come on, Az,” you said, your voice low and inviting. “It'll be fun. I've done this a thousand times already. I promise you, it's totally normal here.”

Azriel knew what you were doing. You thought that if you used that tone, if you batted your lashes and looked at him with your big doe eyes, he would cave. Normally, he would. He could hardly say no to you. But he couldn't stand the thought of someone else seeing his mate clad only in underwear. Bikini. Whatever it was called.

“Y/N, that's not the point. I—”

Before he could finish, your lips curled into a mischievous smirk, and you suddenly turned and bolted out the front door before he could catch you.

Cursing under his breath, Azriel quickly slipped on his shoes and followed you outside, not caring about his own underdressed state.

You hadn't gone far, not with those slippers that made running nearly impossible. He caught up to you just as you turned the corner, his hand grabbing your arm, his shadows swirling around both of you to hide your indecent state.

You stopped in your tracks and pointed to the beach just at the end of the short street. “Look,” you said simply.

Azriel did, and his eyes widened at what was probably one of the most shocking sights he'd ever seen.

There weren't many people, but you were right. Everyone—males and females, High Fae or lesser faeries, even the few children—was wearing the so-called swimsuits. And no one paid anyone else a second glance. Everyone minded their own business, either lying on towels or swimming. Some of the children were playing in the sand.

His shadows dimmed under the sunlight, halting their swirling around your bodies and disappearing completely soon after.

“Is it really that normal here?” he asked, a hint of surprise still in his voice. His gaze slowly returned to you.

“This is the Summer Court, Az,” you replied with a chuckle. “What kind of people would we be if we didn't enjoy our sea in this heat?” You took his hand, giving it a gentle tug to make him follow as you began walking again. “Come on. You're a big Illyrian. Don't tell me you're shy.”

Despite his lingering shock, Azriel couldn't help the smile spreading across his face. “It's not that.”

He had never had a problem with nakedness. He'd seen plenty over the centuries, enough not to be bothered by it. It was the idea of willingly wearing nothing more than underwear—and he wouldn't let you convince him that it was anything other than that—and going out in public. More specifically, it was the idea of his beautiful mate going out in public like that. It was a sight usually reserved just for him, and he didn't want to share it with anyone.

“Fine.” You playfully rolled your eyes. “If someone looks at me the wrong way, you can bash his teeth out. Is that better?”

He knew you were joking, but the fact that you were aware of his concern and the way you dismissed it so lightheartedly actually helped him relax.

“It is, yes,” he confirmed, only half-joking. He wouldn't actually do it unless it was an extreme situation, and he knew you could hold your own without his help, but still. He couldn't suppress the protective—and possessive, if he was being honest—streak that was only emphasized by your bond.

“See, this is why I didn't tell you what we'd be doing today,” you teased. You had reached the beach now, and you led him to an empty spot away from the others before letting go of his hand. “Because you wouldn't have agreed.”

Azriel couldn't deny that you were right. It would have taken a lot of convincing and persuasion to get him to agree to this.

Or maybe just your smile.

You took off your slippers and buried your bare feet in the white sand, wiggling your toes through the grains. You breathed in the scent of sea and salt in the air, your eyes closed. And the soft, fond smile that graced your lips as you reconnected with your homeland court made him fall in love with you all over again. It was a smile he’d do anything to see, and Azriel made a mental note to bring you to the Summer Court more often.

He followed your lead and slipped off his shoes. The sand was warm under his soles, and the morning sun heated his tanned skin. He even spread his wings a little, basking in the sensation.

“So, what do we do now?” he asked after a moment.

Your eyes opened, and you crouched down to open the bag you’d dropped on the ground. “Now we set the towels down,” you answered, pulling one out and handing it to him. “It’s probably too small for you, but I don’t have a beach towel for overgrown bats, so…”

Azriel shook his head, used to your endless teasing. You chuckled softly, and after you both placed your towels on the sand—his was, indeed, too small—you took his hand again, walking backward toward the shore and pulling him along.

“Now we go swimming,” you declared, then paused, a small frown creasing your brow. “You do know how to swim, right?”

It was Azriel’s turn to chuckle. “Of course I can swim, sweetheart. I just don’t remember the last time I had to.”

“Well, then,” you said with a smile, rising on your toes to kiss him, “let’s go make some memories.”

Without waiting for a response, you ran into the ocean with a delighted squeal and dove in, water splashing around you. Azriel didn’t move immediately, and simply watched as you emerged, eyes bright and smile wide.

You were the picture of joy.

The last time he had seen you this happy was probably at your mating ceremony, when you had appeared in that stunning teal and gold dress, looking like a vision. And now, as you stood in the water, Azriel was suddenly grateful you had brought him here. Droplets trickled down your body, your brown skin glistening in the sunlight as you moved your wet hair out of your face.

You beckoned him with a hand, and his feet moved of their own accord, guiding him toward you. He inhaled sharply as the cold water reached his thighs, sloshing around his wings. He didn't know how you could look so at ease when he was shivering, but you were in your element after all, while he was completely out of his.

“Aw,” you cooed as he reached you. “Is my little bat cold?”

Azriel grimaced, his tone playful as he pulled you closer. “First you call me an overgrown bat, and now I’m a little one?”

Your wet body pressed against his still-dry chest, and your hair dripped water onto his tattooed skin as you looked up at him. “Well, yes,” you confirmed, stating it as if it were an obvious fact. “Illyrians are overgrown bats, but you’re my little bat.”

He couldn’t help but chuckle. “You know I’m a head taller than you, right? I’m not little.”

You opened your mouth to answer, but then you closed it without saying a word. Azriel could see the wheels turning in your head as you stepped away from him, a mischievous grin spreading across your face.

“What is it?” he asked, knowing that expression all too well. “What did you just think?”

“There's this thing my father always did when I was a child,” you explained. “I loved it, and now I want you to do it too.”

After all the crazy ideas you'd hit him with over the years—this beach day being the latest—Azriel wasn't sure he wanted to know what you were talking about now, but he still lifted a brow. “And said thing is…?”

Your smile widened. “Throw me in the water.”

Azriel frowned. He must have heard that wrong. “What?”

But you nodded enthusiastically, grabbing his hands and placing them on your hips. “Pick me up and throw me in the water. You're strong enough to do it, c'mon.”

His fingers tightened on your hips, but he still wasn't convinced. “Why would I do that?”

“Because you love me and I asked nicely?” you tried, batting your lashes at him.

Azriel chuckled. “I do love you, but you did not ask nicely.” He pulled you closer, his fingers brushing the hem of your panties. Gods, it still felt like underwear to him, and all he wanted was to take them off. “You ordered me to do it.”

You laughed with him. “Sorry about that.” Pulling him down, you pressed a quick kiss to his lips. “Love of my life, my mate, my everything, will you please be so kind as to use your beautiful, strong muscles to pick me up and throw me in the water? It's fun, and I’d really appreciate it.”

He knew you were teasing, but his heartbeat quickened with every word of flattery, even after all these years. “You are unbelievable,” he mumbled, stealing another kiss.

Though he still didn't understand how it could be fun, and wasn’t sure if he even liked the idea, his hands slid up to your waist. He lifted you effortlessly, water cascading off your body as he hoisted you out of the ocean. He hesitated for a moment, but when he saw your excited smile, he threw you back into the water, expecting you to twist midair and gracefully dive in. You had the agility and flexibility for it. He knew you could do it.

But you didn’t.

You let yourself plummet straight into the ocean, your laughter swallowed by the water as you plunged in, splashing it all around. The water was so clear he could see you sink for a moment before you kicked your legs and emerged, grinning from ear to ear.

Azriel stopped questioning whether it was fun or not. It didn't matter if it was childish and silly. After all, he still had snowball fights with his brothers.

All that mattered was the joy written on your face, and as he made his way over to you, he found himself wishing he had a place like this—somewhere he cherished returning to, a place filled with memories of a happy childhood.

“You probably think I'm crazy,” you said as you treaded water. He could still touch the seabed here, but it was now too deep for you.

“A little,” he admitted with a smile. “But as long as it makes you happy, love.”

You looped your arms around his neck, pulling yourself closer as his hands found their way back to your hips. Pressing your body against his, you rubbed the tip of your nose against his. “There’s something else that would make me happy right now,” you murmured, gazing into his eyes.

Azriel’s smile widened as he leaned in for a kiss, but before he knew it, you had pulled him under the surface. He had adjusted to the water’s temperature by now, but the sudden, full submersion still made him shiver. His first instinct was to break the surface and take a deep breath—something he would have done already if only you had told him what you were planning. Before he could, though, you used your magic to create a bubble of oxygen around the two of you, allowing him to breathe.

“So drowning your mate is what makes you happy?” he asked skeptically.

“Sorry about that,” you chuckled, eyes glinting with mischief. “But the surprise on your face was priceless.”

Azriel lifted a brow, readjusting his wings. It had been so long since the last time he was underwater that it took a moment to remember how to position them properly, preventing himself from floating back up.

You laughed, your hair swirling around you like a shimmering, silver crown inside the bubble.

“No, but it was fun,” you answered. You cupped his face, kicking your feet to swim just a little closer to him. “What would really make me happy is something I’ve always wanted to do, but I need to let the bubble disappear. I promise I’ll summon it again as soon as we’re done.”

Azriel frowned slightly, but he had an idea of what you wanted to do. He could only hope he was right, because he had a feeling you wouldn’t explain it if he asked.

He nodded, and with that, you called back your magic. Water rushed around you again, but this time he inhaled deeply before it was too late. And then you proved his suspicions correct.

You pulled him in for a kiss, and he tasted the salty water on your lips. His hands settled gently on the sides of your neck, keeping you close. As you both kicked your legs to stay submerged, Azriel understood why you wanted to do this. It felt intimate, like you were the only two beings in the entire ocean.

It reminded him of the way kissing you felt when he was flying with you cradled in his arms—the world faded away, shrinking until nothing existed but the two of you.

It lasted only a few seconds, but when you parted, both of you were smiling. As promised, you summoned another bubble as soon as your lips left his.

“That was nice,” he murmured, his voice soft.

“Good, because we’ll definitely do it again.” You stole another quick kiss before pointing toward the endless expanse of the ocean. “I want to go swimming. Do you want to come or would you rather head back to the beach?”

Azriel shook his head. “No, I want to come with you.”

“Perfect.” Your smile widened, and you gestured for him to follow as you turned around. “Then I want to show you the reef.”

He couldn’t help but smile to himself as he tucked his wings in tightly, kicking his legs to keep up with you. Never in his long life had he imagined that he’d one day find himself swimming in the Summer Court, wearing little more than a piece of underwear. But life with you was always full of surprises, and he had no doubt this wouldn’t be the last.

General taglist: @mrsjna @navyblue-eternity @paintedbyshadows @highladyandromeda @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @azrielsmate3 @mollygetssherlockcoffee @mirandasidefics @tinystarfishgalaxy @cynthiesjmxazrielslover @anarchiii @readinggeeklmao @anneas11 @azrielslittleslut @lilah-asteria @aaahhh0127 @lorosette @azrielsrealmate @pey2618 @mellowmusings @k8r123-blog @daughterofthemoons-stuff @minnieoo @saltedcoffeescotch

Azriel Week: @fourthwing4ever

[rafes-slut]

69 with Rafe!!

All About Balance

Pairing: Rafe Cameron x You

Warnings: Smut (18+), mutual oral, explicit content, mild dominance, overstimulation, dirty talk, and Rafe being insatiable.

You were lying across Rafe’s bed, half-draped over his chest, scrolling through your phone while he traced lazy patterns on your bare thigh. His fingers skimmed higher with each pass, making it clear he had something else on his mind.

“Baby,” he murmured, nuzzling into your neck.

You hummed in response, barely paying attention until his grip tightened, pulling your focus to him. His lips hovered near your ear as he whispered, “Let’s try something new.”

You finally glanced at him, intrigued. “Like what?”

His smirk was dangerous. “Sixty-nine.”

A slow heat spread through your body, your stomach flipping at the suggestion. Rafe had never been shy about trying new things, and, truthfully, neither were you. The idea sent a thrill down your spine, your thighs clenching instinctively.

“Yeah?” you asked, a teasing lilt in your voice.

Rafe sat up, his blue eyes darkening as he smirked. “Yeah. And I want you on top.”

You bit your lip, pretending to think about it, but the way his hands slid down to your ass, kneading possessively, made your answer obvious.

“Alright,” you said, straddling his waist. “Show me.”

The mattress dipped beneath you as you shifted into place, your hands bracing against Rafe’s firm stomach for balance. He lay back, his head resting against the pillows, watching you with barely restrained hunger.

“Come here, baby,” he coaxed, guiding you forward.

Your thighs trembled as you lowered yourself over him, your body hovering above his face while your own lips hovered near his cock. His scent surrounded you—clean, masculine, and intoxicating. The moment his breath fanned against your heat, you shivered.

Rafe groaned, gripping your hips. “Fuck, you’re dripping already.”

Before you could respond, he dragged his tongue through your folds, making your breath stutter. Your lips parted in a silent gasp, your fingers curling around the base of his cock for support. The first slow swirl of his tongue had you gripping the sheets, your mind already blurring at the sensation.

But Rafe wasn’t going to let you get lost in it just yet. His hands tightened on your hips, urging you downward. “Come on, sweetheart,” he rasped. “Want to feel that pretty mouth on me.”

His words sent a fresh wave of heat through you, and you obeyed, wrapping your lips around the tip of his cock. A sharp hiss left his mouth at the first flick of your tongue, but he didn’t falter—if anything, he doubled down, licking into you with devastating precision.

The angle had your body trembling. Every time you took more of him into your mouth, his tongue worked you over, making it harder to focus. He was relentless, groaning against you, his fingers digging into your skin as if he couldn’t get enough.

“Fuck, baby,” Rafe panted, his breath warm against your thigh. “You’re killing me.”

You moaned around him in response, the vibrations making him buck up slightly. His hips stuttered, and you hollowed your cheeks, taking him deeper. His answering groan sent a delicious pulse straight to your core.

You were completely lost in each other—pushing, pulling, teasing, and devouring. Every movement, every flick of a tongue, every moan and gasp built the pleasure higher, until your body was coiling tight with need.

Rafe could feel it. He sucked at your clit, his fingers pressing bruises into your hips. “Come for me,” he growled against you. “Right on my tongue.”

The command sent you over the edge. Your body tensed, pleasure crashing through you in waves as your thighs shook around him. The sensation of your moans vibrating around his cock pushed Rafe right after you, his hips jerking as he spilled into your mouth with a low, wrecked groan.

For a long moment, neither of you moved, both catching your breath. Then, Rafe let out a breathless chuckle, his hands running over your thighs.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “We’re definitely doing that again.”

You grinned, shifting to lie beside him, still breathless. “Agreed.”

Rafe turned his head, smirking. “After I recover, I mean. ’Cause you’re getting on top of my face again.”

[readngandweepng]

poly top male reader and ftm charthur thing

mdni sub top reader with male pronouns. this is honestly kind of short but mostly proofread. unprotected sex also. and written with mid to high honor arthur in mind

arthur’s rough hands rest on your chest as he rolls his hips, his eyes, glossed over with desire, never stray from the sight of you. charles watches from somewhere in the room, and if you could stop your eyes from fluttering closed every two seconds you’d look over to see where he was and what it was he was doing. 

“look at you.. been all pent up, haven’t you, boy?” a flick of arthur’s hips has your eyes snapping open, his blue ones meeting yours. “good thing he’s got us.. ain’t that right?” his voice low and gruff in your ear would have had you buckling if he wasn’t keeping you held flat against the bed. the way he’s looking down at you almost makes you feel like prey. every movement and sound you make, he’s like a hawk as he studies you. your cock twitches where it’s buried deep inside him so, of course, it doesn’t go unnoticed. you don’t hear it when charles says something in return, although whatever he said must have not been directed at you because arthur nods his head and responds instead with a hum, and with a sharp exhale suddenly he’s sitting up straight, his hands now behind him and settled loosely on your thighs. 

he gives you a chance to catch your breath and he smiles something devilish when your eyes focus on him. he tilts his head, causing loose strands of hair to fall forward. he hasn’t cut his hair in a while, and though it’s nowhere near as long as charles’ you still have to fight the urge to gather it in your hands. you couldn’t anyway, even if you wanted to. with arthur now riding you like he’s trying to break you and charles still patiently awaiting his own turn, you're struggling to even think straight, let alone work up the energy to do more than just move your hips in a sloppy rhythm against arthur’s. he hasn’t cum yet, surprisingly. he’d barely let you get your mouth on him properly before he had practically thrown you onto your back and straddled you, only slowing down so that he could make sure charles had a good view. it’s always like this when charles is in the picture. alone with you he’d normally be so bashful, acting like he doesn’t know what he’s doing, but the second charles steps foot to join the party it’s like a switch is flipped and sweet, shy arthur becomes what he is now, a man who just wants to wreck you. whether it’s out of his own desire or if he’s doing it for charles, you haven’t found the time to ask.

“you still here?” arthur’s voice cuts through your thoughts. his hand patting your cheek to grab your attention feels hot on your face. he’s bouncing in your lap, though his pace has seemed to have slowed down. you nod, and you notice now that charles is sitting beside you on the bed. he looks down at you and in his hand is your own that has long since slipped from arthur’s hips. he massages it, treading his fingers across your palm and wrist carefully. “think you can handle a little bit more?” he says, his voice strong but gentle. he brings your hand to his lips to kiss it when you mumble a faint yes in response. arthur’s cunt flutters around your cock, making you groan. it's been what feels like hours. you’ve been close to orgasm a few times now, yet arthur somehow always manages to keep you from going over the edge, only letting you get a small taste of it before he’s either lifting himself off your weeping cock or kissing you so hard you forget what was even happening—he’s always been so good at that, much to your chagrin.

“just breathe—you’re doing so well. once arthur’s done i’ll take care of you, alright?” they give each other a shared look, one that you can’t quite read at the moment. he accentuates his point with a kiss on your head and the affection makes your eyes teary. arthur’s back in the position he was before, using you as balance to strategically bounce himself onto your cock. charles has to graciously hold you down to keep you from squirming, his praise falling on deaf ears as you attempt to keep yourself from spilling inside arthur whose voice has now gone hoarse. his skin glistens with sweat, and his hair curling at the nape of his neck makes him look almost angelic through the mist of your half-lidded, watery eyes. his moans, however, quickly break the innocent angelic vision. 

with all his teasing he’s also got himself worked up, making his pussy wet and slick; your cock practically glimmers with the evidence. arthur’s good at holding out for the sake of keeping you on your toes, but tonight he seems to be rather impatient, despite his time and effort he spent to get you shaking and desperate. a few more bounces in and his back arches as he cums onto your cock with a shaky moan. his breaths sound raspy from all his previous talking and groaning which will probably raise a question or two from camp members the next day. he stays on top of you for a moment to ride out the high, his head coming down to give you a playful kiss on the corner of your lips. you make eye contact and it makes him dart his tongue between your lips where you can taste a distant hint of rum. 

he smiles as he slides off your dick with a satisfied sigh (while ignoring the slight tremble in his legs) before tilting his head to give charles a long, but almost chaste kiss. “yer turn,” he whispers. arthur glances down at you with a glint in his eye, noting the steep rise and fall of your chest. “maybe go easy on ‘im.” he gives charles one more kiss, whose smile now mirrors his lover’s growing smirk plastered across his face. he doesn’t need to respond. the implications of what comes next has your body (and dick) twitching in need. 

the pair switch places after charles undresses (which took longer than usual due to arthur’s offer of “assistance” where he made sure to feel charles up as he took off each article of clothing). still, charles gives you another minute to get your bearings together and you get to watch them exchange their affection; arthur slaps charles’ ass, letting out a whistle that’s quickly followed by his own laughter at his lover’s retaliation. ain’t you lucky is something arthur always liked to say, usually after he or charles had your back during a robbery, but with the sight in front of you those words ring true more than ever. 

before, arthur had basically seduced you into this bed, distracting you with a kiss as he shamelessly swung his legs over you and pushed you down against the blankets. his words had been dirty, his voice husky and deep. he didn’t even give you a chance to sit up before he’d taken you to the hilt with the full intention of ruining you. here now, charles gracefully slides on to you, gently sitting himself down on your hips. his hands are on you, gentle as ever. he can feel your heart beating beneath his palm, and when he leans down to place a kiss on your lips he can feel it picking up speed. 

you clearly haven’t cum yet, judging by your weeping cock that restlessly leans against your stomach. your body jolts at charles’ touch when he wraps a hand around it, gently squeezing at the tip before giving it a couple strokes. you groan, attempting to buck into his hand, but charles’ strong thighs keep you held still in place. beside you arthur reaches over to squeeze charles’ chest, rolling a nipple under his thumb. his hand gets bashfully swatted away, causing him to laugh. you almost manage a smile until charles suddenly twists his wrist, the feeling causing your head to momentarily spin before settling. with a gasp you grab arthur’s arm in surprise, making the bastard beam down at you with a look on his face you wish you had even half the energy to wipe off. still you can’t help but shudder under his gaze. “all this and you ain’t even got to the good part yet!” hearing this, charles lets go of your dick, letting his thumb trail the side of it for just a moment longer. the lack of touch makes you want to cry, but your worries are washed away when charles takes your face in his hands to give you a kiss. his forehead rests against yours for a second as he speaks.

“come ‘ere,” charles brings you up in a sitting position before slowly sinking down onto your cock. your lips meet again, the kiss swallowing whatever sound you and charles would have made. your hands lazily roam his body, mostly staying around his thighs and feeling up his legs and waist. your cock stretches him out perfectly; it’s not painful, but it certainly is a tight fit, just the way he likes it. he sighs as he begins rocking against you, and with your growing desperation for release you take advantage of the burst of energy and meet his hips. he finds your hands to lock them in his grasp, keeping them held beside him. your eyes dart from his lips to his eyes, and you realize you’re probably making a fool of yourself with how your mouth is hanging open right now. you know how he plays his games, keeping you close but not close enough where you can kiss and touch him how you wish. his strong chest is right there too, and all of a sudden you find yourself desperate to feel him, and unfortunately for you arthur can tell. he sits up and brushes charles’ hair over his shoulder with a dramatic sigh.

“ain’t he just the prettiest?” his husky whisper sends a shiver down your spine, and with the way charles tilts his head to show off his bare neck you have to swallow down a whine. arthur trails his knuckles down charles’ neck all the way to his chest, making sure they brush against his nipples. charles doesn’t appear fazed, but around your cock his pussy flutters in response. his question doesn’t need to be answered but you nod anyway, unable to really tear your eyes away from the sight. arthur continues further down until he’s pressing his hand against charles’ stomach which faintly caves at the touch. “he fills you good, don’t he?” the question isn’t directed at you but it makes you groan. you rest your forehead against charles who's now starting to rut a little bit faster in your lap. you can faintly hear the wet sound his pussy is making, and beside yourself you take one of his nipples in your mouth just to help hold yourself together. 

he rolls his hips with a deep moan, and if you hadn’t been holding on for his sake you’d have cum right then and there. he's taking his time, but you can still catch the faint jerk in his movements as he takes the entirety your cock, relishing in how full it makes him feel. you notice now arthur’s hand is missing, but you don’t have time to wonder where it went when you hear a faint “jesus..” arthur moans and you can see next to you he’s pumping two fingers into his pussy as he watches charles ride you. it makes your hips jump, which in turn makes charles give out another moan, his head falling forward in pleasure. it’s silent between you three as you take in the sights and sounds. arthur’s fingers squelch in his warm, wet cunt and charles’ soft moans sound harmonious alongside arthur’s breathless ones. 

“charles—” you’re cut off by your own groan when he swivels his hips with suave ease. you’re closer now, and it’s a miracle you haven’t finished at least once or twice by now. your voice feels stuck, but charles gets the idea anyhow. without warning he starts to bounce in your lap, freeing your hands in the process. Instinctively they fly to his hips, and you hold on like they’re a lifeline. your breath catches in your throat as your building orgasm returns with full force. “charles, i’ll—i’ll cum,” he only responds with a curt i know as he continues bouncing on your cock, and by the sound of it arthur seems to be fingering himself in tandem as he watches. 

you wrap your arms around charles’ waist and cum inside of him, holding him as close to you as you comfortably can. your vision blanks for a moment as he continues fucking himself on your cock. he doesn’t slow down, and the room is suddenly filled once more with the sound of skin hitting skin and sticky, lustful vigor. you hear arthur loosely mumbling words of encouragement under his breath and you can’t help but turn your head to watch as he lifts one of his legs up to dive his fingers further into his cunt. you groan, and again your eyes flutter close as they struggle to stay open. you fall back next to arthur and watch as charles rubs his clit. thankfully you have half the mind to reach down and push away arthur’s hand to circle his clit too, making him moan as he arches his back once more. even with the overstimulation you buck up, and with a final groan charles cums with his pussy convulsing around your cock. you know arthur’s cum too when he grabs your wrist, his eyes half-lidded as he looks over at you and charles.

the room is quiet now with only your heavy breaths and the low chuckle arthur lets out as his head starts to clear up. charles slowly gets off of you, and suddenly both you and arthur are locked on to the sight of your cum oozing from between his legs. charles huffs in amusement but you can see his legs twitching to close as he thinks about shutting them, a little bit embarrassed by the attention. yet when you finally break from your trance you look up and see a small smile playing on his lips. “had enough?” he asks. you can’t think straight enough to say anything, which didn’t matter anyway because of course, without missing a beat, arthur answers the question for you. “after that? ‘course not.” he shakes his head with a smile before looking at you. “and i think someone agrees..” three pairs of eyes trail down to your hardening cock. you can’t help but admit the sight of it covered in a glossy coat of cum does get you going. exasperatedly you swing an arm over your face with a weak sigh, not because you feel like you’re going to pass out from exhaustion but because you definitely are not opposed to another round, the image of your cum dripping out from charles' pussy burns fresh in your mind and peeking from out under your arm you see arthur already sitting up, eager for his second turn.

[rafecswhore]

almost, always. - r.c x pogue! reader

summary: you and rafe cameron were always on opposite sides of the outer banks—pogue versus kook, wild optimism versus self-destructive chaos. when the relationship fell apart a year ago, you thought it was over. but as rafe reappears in your life with his clean slate and a determination to change, you’re forced to confront the question: is it too late to rebuild what you once had?

present day: first encounter

the sun was low in the sky, casting a golden glow over the quiet gas station parking lot. you’d just finished your shift at the wreck, your body sore and your mind a little numb from hours of work.

you stood at the pump, watching the numbers climb painfully slowly. you weren’t paying much attention—until the unmistakable growl of a truck engine filled the air.

you froze. you didn’t need to turn to know whose truck it was.

still, curiosity won.

a quick glance confirmed it: rafe cameron.

but he didn’t look like the rafe you remembered. gone were the messy blond locks you used to run your fingers through. his hair was buzzed now, a clean-cut look that felt jarring against the wildness you knew he carried.

he stepped out of the truck, his movements casual, but there was tension in his shoulders. topper was with him, rambling on about something you didn’t care to hear. then, like he could feel you looking, rafe’s eyes flicked toward you.

you saw the moment he recognized you. his body went still, his mouth parting slightly like he wasn’t sure if you were real.

“y/n,” he said, his voice carrying across the parking lot.

you wanted to look away, pretend you hadn’t seen him, but it was too late now.

“rafe,” you replied, forcing your tone to stay neutral.

topper, ever the instigator, smirked and muttered something to rafe before disappearing into the truck.

rafe didn’t move. he just stood there, staring at you, his buzzed hair catching the last rays of sunlight.

“you look… different,” he said finally.

you snorted, turning back to the pump. “so do you.”

“yeah,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “trying something new.”

“well, good for you.”

you finished filling your tank, shoved the nozzle back in place, and climbed into your car. as you pulled away, you could still feel his eyes on you.

flashback: how it began

the first time you met rafe, you wanted to punch him in the face.

you were working a double shift at the wreck, exhausted and over it, when he walked in with topper and kelce. they weren’t regulars. kooks usually avoided pogue hangouts unless they wanted to cause trouble.

“what is this place, a charity kitchen?” topper had joked loudly as they sat down, earning a round of laughter from the group. you rolled your eyes, grabbing their drinks and making your way to their table.

“if you’re not happy, you know where the door is,” you said, slamming the beers down harder than necessary. rafe looked up at you, his blue eyes sharp and a little amused. “feisty,” he said, smirking. “i like it.”

“yeah, well, i don’t like you,” you shot back, turning to walk away.

later that night, when you were taking the trash out, he was waiting for you by the back door.

“what do you want, cameron?” you asked, crossing your arms. “just wanted to say sorry,” he said, his tone surprisingly genuine. “and… maybe ask you out.”

you laughed, shaking your head. “not a chance.”

but something about the way he smiled—crooked, a little shy—stayed with you.

present day: the bonfire

you didn’t know he’d be there.

the bonfire was supposed to be a fun night, a chance to let loose with your friends. but when rafe’s truck pulled into the chateau driveway, the energy shifted.

“why the hell is he here?” jj muttered, glaring as rafe stepped out. “sarah invited him,” kiara said, rolling her eyes.

you tried to focus on stacking firewood, pretending you didn’t notice the way rafe’s buzzed head stood out against the crowd.

but you noticed.

it was impossible not to.

he didn’t say much, keeping to the edges of the group. but his eyes found you every chance they could. when you finally stepped away to get some air, it didn’t take long for him to follow.

“y/n,” he called softly, his voice careful.

you turned to face him, your arms crossed. “what do you want, rafe?”

he hesitated, his hands shoved into his pockets. “i just… i wanted to talk.”

“about what?”

“about us,” he said, his blue eyes scanning your face. “about… everything.”

“rafe—”

“i know i messed up,” he said quickly. “i know i wasn’t what you needed, and i don’t blame you for leaving. but i’ve been trying. i swear, i’ve been trying.”

you stared at him, your heart aching at the vulnerability in his voice.

“why now?” you asked, your voice quiet.

he ran a hand over his buzzed head, his jaw tightening. “because i can’t stop thinking about you. because no matter what i do, it always comes back to you.”

flashback: the breakup

it wasn’t one fight that ended things. it was a hundred little ones.

but the final straw came one night when rafe showed up drunk to your birthday dinner, hours late and reeking of whiskey.

“you couldn’t even try,” you said, your voice shaking as he leaned against the doorway of your apartment.

“i’m here, aren’t i?” he slurred, his words biting.

“this isn’t working, rafe,” you said, tears streaming down your face. “we’re not working.”

“don’t do this,” he said, his tone desperate. “please, y/n. don’t.”

but it was already done.

a small, genuine smile spread across his face. “as slow as you need.” and for the first time in a long time, you let yourself believe in the possibility of almost, always.

present day: the second chance

“you hurt me,” you said, your voice trembling as you stood on the dock, staring at the boy who had once been your world.

“i know,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “and i’ll never forgive myself for that. but i swear, y/n, i’m not that guy anymore.”

you looked at him, really looked at him. his buzzed hair, his tired eyes, the way his shoulders seemed lighter but still carried the weight of something unspoken.

“why should i believe you?” you asked.

he stepped closer, his voice soft but steady. “because i’m still standing here, trying. because you’re the only thing that’s ever felt worth it.”

your heart ached, torn between fear and hope.

“we’ll take it slow,” you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper.

[isthlsfate]

⌞ 𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐞 ⌝

‧₊˚ ⏾ ༉‧

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: rafe cameron x black!pogue!reader, rafe pining over reader, fluff, some angst, descriptive words (reader has locs),

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2k

‧₊˚ ⏾ ༉‧

the air in the outer banks carries a familiar heat, heavy and wet with salt. the kind of warmth that clings to your skin, seeping into every pore.

it’s midday, and the sun burns overhead, casting long shadows of the oak trees lining the dirt paths that divide figure eight from the rest of the island.

rafe cameron stands at the edge of a dock, his sunglasses perched low on his nose, watching you.

the girl who doesn’t belong here, not in his world.

not in the way kooks like him are bred to believe in the natural order of things.

you’re a pogue.

a figure born from the crashing waves, the sandy streets, the smell of motor oil. the lines between the kooks and pogues have always been cleanly drawn—solid, unshakable.

but then there’s you, and suddenly, everything rafe thought he knew seems as fragile as the shifting tide.

you sit cross-legged on the edge of a rickety boat dock, your head tilted back toward the sky as you laugh. it’s a sound that carries, light and musical, stirring something restless in his chest.

the sunlight pours over your melanated skin, golden and gleaming, catching on the high points of your cheekbones and the curve of your shoulders.

you’re radiant, effortless, and completely unaware of the way you’ve unraveled him from the inside out.

“you good, man?” topper’s voice cuts through his friend’s trance, startling him.

rafe doesn’t respond immediately, his gaze locked on you. you’re talking to a friend—someone he doesn’t recognize—a pogue like you. the way your hands move as you speak, the way your lips curve around your words, it’s all hypnotic.

“rafe.”

“what?” he snaps, finally tearing his eyes away to look at topper, who’s giving him a knowing smirk.

“never seen you this focused on something that doesn’t involve money or your dad’s approval,” topper teases.

rafe glares, but the heat rising in his chest isn’t just from irritation.

it’s shame.

he shouldn’t be looking at you like this, shouldn’t be thinking about the way your legs look folded beneath you, or how your locs catch the wind, or how your laugh makes the edges of his world feel less sharp.

“she’s not my type,” he mutters, more to himself than to topper.

the latter snickers.

“could’ve fooled me.”

rafe doesn’t respond. instead, he adjusts his sunglasses and walks away, his heart beating faster than it should.

the next time he sees you, it’s by chance.

you’re sitting outside the wreck, your hands wrapped around a glass of sweet tea, your legs stretched out in front of you. the sun has started to dip below the horizon, casting everything in hues of orange and pink.

rafe had only stopped by to grab a bite after dropping sarah off at the dock, but now he’s rooted to the spot, watching you through the window like a thief staking out something precious.

your focus is on the book in your lap, your brows drawn together in concentration.

the world moves around you—people chatting and laughing—but you’re still, completely absorbed in whatever story you’re reading.

before he can think better of it, he walks inside, his footsteps muffled by the hum of conversation and the creak of the wooden floorboards.

he doesn’t know what he’s doing or why he’s doing it, only that he needs to be closer to you.

as he approaches your table, you glance up, your eyes meeting his blue ones. for a moment, there’s silence. you blink, surprised, and then your lips curl into a polite smile.

“hey,” you say, your voice soft but steady.

rafe clears his throat, shifting on his feet.

“hey, you.”

you look at him expectantly, waiting for him to say something else, but his mind has gone completely blank. all he can think about is how the fading sunlight catches on your skin, making it look impossibly warm and inviting.

“do you need something?” you ask, raising an amused eyebrow.

“uh, no, no. just…wanted to say hi,” he stammers, cursing himself internally.

you tilt your head, studying him.

“hi.” there’s a pause, and then you laugh—a soft, breathy sound that makes his chest ache. “you’re rafe, right? sarah’s brother?”

“yeah,” he says quickly, relieved to have something to latch onto. “that’s me.”

you nod, your smile widening just a fraction.

“she talks about you sometimes.”

“hopefully not all bad,” he jokes, trying to keep his tone light.

you chuckle, shaking your head.

he feels the breath leave his lungs as your locs sway around your face.

“no, not all bad.”

for a moment, there’s a flicker of something between you—a connection, faint but undeniable. rafe feels it like a jolt to his system, a reminder that there’s more to life than the expectations that have been suffocating him for as long as he can remember.

but then you glance back at your book, breaking the spell.

“well, it was nice meeting you, rafe.”

“yeah,” he says, hesitating before taking a step back. “nice meeting you too.”

as he walks away, he can’t help but glance over his shoulder. you’re already back to reading, oblivious to the way his world has tilted on its axis.

𓇼

days pass, and rafe tries to keep his distance, but the effort is futile.

it’s as though you’ve rooted yourself in his mind, unshakable, a quiet hum in the background of his thoughts. he finds excuses to visit the parts of the island he knows you frequent—the wreck, the docks, even the thrift shop near the cut where you sometimes work weekends.

it’s reckless, borderline obsessive, but he can’t stop himself. you’ve become a fixation, a gravitational pull he can’t resist.

the second time he sees you outside of chance is by his own design.

he lingers at the docks one evening, pretending to check on his boat while scanning the horizon. when you finally appear, carrying a tote bag over your shoulder and a half-smile tugging at your lips, his heart leaps.

“cameron?” your voice pulls him from his daze, and he straightens, feigning nonchalance.

“hey,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets.

you glance at him curiously.

“you’re here…again?”

“yeah, just, uh…figured i’d get out on the water for a bit.” it’s a weak lie, but you don’t question it.

instead, you give him a small smile, one that reaches your eyes.

“well, enjoy. it’s beautiful out tonight.”

you start to walk away, but something in him snaps.

“wait,” he calls out.

you stop, turning back. the setting sun paints the sky in shades of orange and pink, the light catching on your skin, making it glow as it always does.

he feels like he’s staring at a painting, something too beautiful and fleeting to be real.

“do you wanna…hang out? for a bit?” the words tumble out before he can stop them.

your brow arches in surprise, but after a moment, you nod.

“sure. why not?”

you step onto the dock and take the hand he offers as you climb aboard. his palm is warm and calloused, his grip firm but careful, and for a split second, you both linger, your skin touching longer than necessary.

when you finally pull away, the air feels heavier, charged.

“nice boat,” you say, looking around.

he shrugs, trying to play it cool.

“it’s just a boat.”

“sure,” you tease, smirking. “a really nice boat.”

he chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck.

“want a tour?”

you nod, and he shows you around, pointing out the small cabin below deck and the cooler stocked with beer and snacks. when you settle in at the bow, your legs dangling over the side, he sits beside you, close enough that your knees brush.

for a while, you both sit in silence, the gentle rocking of the boat and the sound of the waves filling the space between you.

“you come out here often?” you ask, breaking the quiet.

“yeah,” he says, his voice softer now. “it’s…peaceful. gets me away from everything, you know?”

you glance at him, studying his profile.

there’s something vulnerable about the way he’s looking out at the water, his usual bravado stripped away.

“yeah,” you say quietly. “i get that.”

he turns to you then, his blue eyes catching yours. for a moment, neither of you speak.

the tension hangs heavy in the air, unspoken but palpable.

“you don’t…you don’t strike me as a boat kind of girl,” he says, his lips twitching into a half-smile.

“and what kind of girl do i strike you as?” you challenge, your voice light but your gaze unwavering.

his smile falters, his expression growing serious.

“the kind i can’t figure out,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper.

your breath catches, and for a moment, you’re not sure what to say. his eyes are on you, steady and searching, as though he’s trying to memorize every detail of your face.

“you say that like it’s a bad thing,” you manage, your voice softer now.

“it’s not,” he says quickly, shaking his head. “it’s not bad. it’s just…different.”

“different how?”

he hesitates, his jaw tightening as he looks away, his gaze falling to where your knees are still brushing.

“you make me think about things i don’t usually think about,” he says finally. “like what it would be like to—” he stops himself, clamping his mouth shut.

“to what?” you press, your voice tinged with curiosity.

he shakes his head, standing abruptly.

“forget it.”

you frown, watching as he paces the small deck.

“rafe, what’s going on?”

“nothing,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair. “just…nothing.”

“it doesn’t feel like nothing.” you stand too, stepping closer to him.

he looks at you then, his expression conflicted, like he’s fighting some internal battle.

“you should probably go,” he says finally, his voice strained.

your stomach sinks, but you nod, biting back the questions swirling in your mind.

“okay,” you say softly, stepping off the boat and onto the dock.

as you walk away, you glance back over your shoulder. he’s still standing there, his hands clenched at his sides, watching you with an expression you can’t quite decipher.

and as much as you try to push the moment away, it lingers, an unspoken truth hanging between you, heavy and unrelenting.

𓇼

from then on, the encounters become more frequent, more intentional. he learns little things about you—the way your laugh always starts with a soft hum before spilling out into something louder, the way your fingers absentmindedly trace patterns on surfaces when you’re lost in thought, the way you light up when talking about your favorite books or places on the island.

you’re nothing like the girls he’s used to. you’re grounded, genuine, unapologetically yourself.

and it terrifies him.

one night, the two of you sit on the edge of the docks, your legs dangling over the water.

the moon hangs low in the sky, casting a silvery glow over everything.

“why do you keep doing this?” you ask suddenly, your voice soft but steady.

“doing what?”

“hanging around me. i mean, let’s be real, rafe. you’re a kook. i’m not. people are gonna talk.”

he hesitates, his jaw tightening.

“i don’t care what people think.”

“why, though? why me?” you look at him, your eyes searching his.

the question lingers in the air, and for a moment, he doesn’t know how to answer. how does he explain the way you’ve turned his world upside down, the way you make him feel like there’s more to life than money and status and expectation?

“because you’re…you,” he says finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

your skin warms, satisfied with his answer. you try to suppress the smile tugging on your lips, but it wins as you gently lean your head on his shoulder.

𓇼

it’s at a party at the boneyard that everything comes crashing down.

you arrive together, a fact that hasn’t gone unnoticed by the crowd. heads turn, whispers ripple through the air, but as promised, rafe doesn’t care.

he’s too focused on you, anyway, the way your sundress clings to your curves, the way your hair frames your face.

the party is chaotic, and at some point, the two of you get separated. rafe weaves through the crowd, scanning for you, his chest tightening with every passing minute.

when he finally spots you, his stomach drops.

you’re standing with pope, his hand resting lightly on your arm as the two of you talk.

rafe knows pope—knows he’s harmless, that he’s more likely to be studying than flirting—but that doesn’t stop the jealousy from flaring hot and vicious in his chest.

he watches as you laugh at something pope says, the sound sending a jolt of anger through him.

his hands clench into fists at his sides, and before he can think better of it, he’s striding toward you.

“having fun?” he asks, his voice sharp, his gaze fixed on you.

you turn to him, surprised.

“rafe—”

“we should go,” he interrupts, his tone leaving no room for argument.

pope steps back, his eyes narrowing.

“is there a problem?”

“no,” the dirty-blonde snaps, his eyes never leaving yours. “let’s go.”

the argument erupts as soon as you’re alone, the two of you standing in the shadow of the dunes, the sound of the party muffled in the distance.

“what the hell was that?” you demand, your eyes blazing.

“what was that?” he fires back, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “you tell me, hanging all over pope like that.”

“hanging all over—are you serious? we were talking, rafe!”

“yeah, sure looked like it.”

you glare at him, your chest heaving.

“why do you even care? you’re the one who keeps pushing me away like this doesn’t mean anything.”

the words hit him like a slap, and for a moment, he’s speechless.

“i never said that,” he says finally, his voice quieter now, but no less intense.

“you didn’t have to.” your voice cracks, and you hate how vulnerable it sounds. “you act like this is just some game, like you’re keeping me around because you’re bored, and it’s killing me, rafe. i can’t keep doing this.”

his hands shake as he runs them through his hair, his frustration boiling over.

“you think this is easy for me? do you have any idea what it’s like, wanting you and knowing i shouldn’t? knowing i’ll never be good enough for you?”

you freeze, his words sinking in.

for a moment, the anger dissolves, replaced by something heavier, deeper.

“rafe…”

“i don’t know what i’m doing,” he admits, his voice raw, broken. “all i know is that i can’t stop thinking about you. about the way you smile, the way you look at me like i’m something more than i am. you’re everything i’m not, and it scares the hell out of me.”

your heart aches at the vulnerability in his voice, the way his eyes shine with unshed tears.

he closes the distance between you, his hand hesitating before brushing against your cheek.

“i don’t want to be scared anymore,” he whispers.

your body hums with anticipation, the world around you fading.

all you see is him.

the kiss that follows is slow, deliberate, a culmination of every unspoken word, every stolen glance, every quiet moment that’s led to this. it’s not perfect—it’s messy, desperate, and full of emotion—but it feels like coming home.

when you finally pull apart, your foreheads rest against each other, your breaths mingling in the cool night air.

the night stretches on, the stars above witnessing the fragile, tentative beginning of something neither of you fully understand, but are finally ready to embrace.

___

꩜ taglist:

[theocddiaries]

Rouge: Are you sure you don’t want to go home? You’ve got plenty of vacation days. Shadow: I’m not skipping work over something so childish. I’m fine. Work will keep me distracted, and I won’t think about Sonic. Topaz [walks past, talking on the phone]: Hey, Sonic, can you tell your brother to come over? The Commander can’t figure out the CCTV system he installed. Alright, thanks, Sonic. Rouge: Topaz, no phones in this area. Topaz: Jeez, did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed? [into the phone]: Nothing, Sonic, it’s just Rouge, she’s acting super weird today— [holds out the phone]: Any of you guys wanna talk to Sonic?? Rouge: Topaz, I said no calls in this area, for crying out loud! Topaz: Geez, alright! Someone’s in a mood…! [leaves] Shadow: Rouge, let it go. I don’t need you to do anything. I’m fine. I’m getting coffee, want something? Rouge: Yeah, two cups. You’re not getting rid of me that easily today. Shadow: Fantastic… [Shadow enters the break room, where Rockwell is whispering with another coworker.] Rockwell: Look at him, the blue one left him wrecked. As if he wasn't moody enough on a regular, you know? I swear the Commander keeps him around just so people feel better about their own bad days… [Shadow’s ear twitches, and he narrows his eyes while making his coffee. Rockwell takes a sip of her drink and heads for the door with the coworker.] Rockwell: See you, Shadow. Have a good day. Shadow: Goodbye, Rockwell… [mutters under his breath when she leaves]: Jerk. [inhales, straightens his quills]: Alright. You only think about him because people keep bringing him up. You’re fine. Just focus. [Tails’ head peeks through the door.] Tails: So, I see you're with the only thing that wants your company, huh, bachelor? Shadow: … … [In his office, Abraham is furiously typing on his keyboard. He sighs in frustration. Suddenly, a commotion erupts outside. Abraham stands up and walks out to see Tails running from Shadow, laughing mischievously. They’re dodging around desks, knocking over a chair or two.] Shadow: Come here so I can kill you, you little brat! Abraham: Hey, stop, stop! ENOUGH! [Everyone freezes and looks at him.] Abraham: I told you, if you wanna fight, do it outside! I’m sick of having to explain why everything is broken in half in this building. Shadow: It’s this damn fox! Abraham: Sorry, Shadow, I didn’t think you’d come to work today after the humiliation you went through yesterday. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have told Tails to come. Shadow: … You know what? [inhales and then snaps]: You all can go to hell!! [storms off] Abraham: What did I even say this time?? I swear, this guy gets angrier when you show him empathy than when you don’t… [to Tails]: Your brother dodged a bullet. Tails: Tell me about it.

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[xichilie]

Hello, God evening, day, morning, night, whatever time you have.

I just wanted to say I love all your work, your fics, art, your ocs

Could I request Brant x female reader she gets and her best friend (you can youse one of your OCs i love them) isakaid into the game and meet brant and his crew, maybe get rescued

Thanks have a nice (whatever time you have)

Hello ♡

I'm very happy you enjoy all my work, and even happier you love my OC's ♡

Brant x (fem)reader

Into the Tides of Another World

Y/N leaned back against the couch, controller in hand, eyes locked on the screen. The latest Wuthering Waves update had just dropped, and she and Micah had been grinding for hours.

“Damn it,” Micah groaned, fingers flying across the buttons. “How is this boss so cracked? We barely dented its HP!”

Y/N laughed, adjusting her grip. “You just have to time the dodges right. Here—watch.”

Their characters darted across the battlefield, dodging devastating attacks from a towering Aberrant. The stormy environment of the oceanic region looked gorgeous, even as their characters got absolutely wrecked.

Micah groaned. “I swear, this game hates me.”

“Sounds like a skill issue,” Y/N teased.

He shot her a glare. “Oh, you’re sooo hilarious.”

But before she could land the final blow, the screen flickered.

The sound glitched.

A low hum reverberated from the TV—deep, unnatural. The room around them seemed to warp, the edges blurring like static.

Y/N’s heart skipped.

“Uh… Micah?”

He turned, eyes wide. “What the hell is—”

A blinding light swallowed them whole.

Cold.

That was the first thing Y/N registered. Bone-deep cold.

Then—

Water.

Rushing, churning, dragging her under.

She gasped, but her lungs filled with seawater instead of air. She thrashed, panic flooding her chest, but the waves were relentless, tossing her like she weighed nothing.

She barely had time to process anything before another force slammed into her.

“Y/N—!”

Micah Called out.

She turned, barely making out his form through the chaos of the storm. He was struggling, just like her, barely managing to keep his head above water.

“We have to—get to the surface—!” he choked out.

But the waves pulled them apart.

Y/N’s vision blurred, exhaustion creeping in as the cold sapped the strength from her limbs.

Was this how it ended?

Just as the darkness crept in, just as her body gave up—

Hands.

Strong, calloused hands grabbed her arm.

Then—a voice.

“Got one! Pull her up!”

A rush of air hit her lungs as she was hauled out of the water. She coughed violently, sputtering, barely able to focus as rough hands dragged her onto solid wood.

She blinked against the rain, chest heaving��

And then, through the haze, she saw him.

Brant.

But not as a character on a screen.

He was real.

Dripping wet, strands of blue and violet hair plastered against his forehead, his usually easy-going expression replaced with sharp intensity. His pink eyes—brighter than she’d ever seen in the game—locked onto hers.

“Well, well,” he mused, voice smooth despite the chaos around them. “Didn’t expect to be fishing anyone out of the sea today.”

Y/N just stared.

Micah, equally drenched and coughing, was hauled onto the deck beside her. He groaned, rolling onto his back.

“I think I’m dead,” he wheezed.

Brant’s crew chuckled. Someone tossed a dry cloak over Y/N’s shoulders, while another checked Micah for injuries.

“Not dead yet, stranger,” Brant said, crouching beside them. His smirk was unmistakable—amused, curious. “Though you do owe me an introduction.”

Y/N’s mind raced.

The storm. The game. The light.

And now—Brant, in the flesh.

She swallowed hard.

“…What the hell just happened?”

By the time ship finally docked, Y/N’s body felt like it had turned to lead.

Her limbs trembled with exhaustion, her mind was adrift in a fog of disbelief, and her soaked clothes clung to her skin like a second layer of ice. Every inch of her was numb—from the cold, from fatigue, and from the sheer impossibility of what had happened.

She wasn’t home.

She wasn’t in her world.

She and Micah had been pulled into Wuthering Waves.

That fact sat in her chest like an anchor, too heavy, too massive to fully comprehend.

A voice—smooth, lilting, carrying an edge of theatrical amusement—cut through her daze.

Y/N barely registered the sensation of being lifted until she felt warmth against her body.

Strong arms supported her with ease, cradling her against a broad chest. Her breath hitched slightly, the lingering chill from the ocean still clinging to her skin.

“Aha, what an honor,” a familiar, teasing voice murmured near her ear. “Rescuing a beautiful castaway with my own hands… truly, fate is feeling generous today.”

Y/N stiffened slightly, her dazed mind finally catching up.

Brant was carrying her.

Even in her weakened state, she could feel the lithe strength in his hold, his arms wrapped around her with a careful but undeniable confidence.

Micah, being half-dragged by one of the crew members, coughed weakly. “Yeah, yeah. Just don’t drop her, Romeo.”

Brant laughed. “Perish the thought! A performer never fumbles their most precious prop.”

Y/N groaned softly, too tired to argue, too dazed to do anything but rest her head against his shoulder.

The journey to The Fools’ Elysium passed in a haze.

Even through the murmur of voices, the creak of shifting wood, and the occasional spray of salt air, Y/N found herself slipping in and out of awareness.

Only when the warmth of torchlight replaced the cold, open air did she manage to blink herself fully awake.

The sight that met her stole what little breath she had left.

A cavern stretched out before them, massive and teeming with life.

Glowing lanterns hung from wooden walkways, casting golden hues over colorful tents, scattered crates, and makeshift stages. The scent of woodsmoke and spiced food lingered in the air, mixing with the ever-present salt of the sea.

Despite her exhaustion, Y/N felt a flicker of wonder.

“Welcome,” Brant said, voice softer now, though still carrying its usual dramatic lilt, “to the Fools’ Elysium.”

She barely had time to process the sight before Brant effortlessly adjusted his hold on her.

“Alright, darling, as much as I’d love to carry you forever I suppose it’s time to get you somewhere warm.”

Y/N wanted to protest. She really did.

But the moment Brant set her down onto a soft cot, exhaustion finally caught up to her.

She barely registered Roccia peeking out from behind her oversized suitcase, or the sharp-eyed medic checking her for injuries.

Brant stayed close his pink eyes watching her carefully.

And for the first time since she had arrived in this strange, impossible world—

Y/N let herself rest.

[madamechrissy]

Take Me Home Tonight

♡ ♡ Pairings ♡ ♡ Law Professor Satoru Gojo x Student Fem Reader

♡ ♡ Warnings ♡ ♡ MDNI- Gojo is like 29 here, reader is like 22 or 23. Nothing too crazy. But is Professor/teacher forbidden type love. In this chap- oral sex (fem recieving) titty fucking, light slapping, breed kink, basically them being cute!

♡ ♡ Word Count ♡ ♡ this chap- 7k

♡ ♡ Summary ♡ ♡ After passing your LSATs, your friends take you out to unwind. You never go out, so you are awkwardly agree, and you end up in the arms of a super hot man named Satoru. You end up screaming Satoru's name as he drops down on his knees before you, only to lose him in the club. All you have is his first name. Two months later, in your Criminal Law class, your heart stops. Your teacher? Professor Gojo. Or as you soon call him, Professor Dickhead. You can't fuck up your law school, and he won't fuck up his career, not just because he makes you wet in class, no, he's a dick. Right? That pout and blue eyes don't wreck you, right? - Lawyer AU

Chapter 13 ♡ ♡ Masterlist ♡ ♡ Playlist

Chapter 14

Right inside the little courthouse, standing in your wedding dress, with Maki holding your hand, you look at your soon-to-be husband Satoru Gojo. There's a hung over Suguru standing next to him, Nanami and Yuta are clearly hung over in the bench seats as well, but you still focus on that gorgeous man directly across from this room, in his white tuxedo.

Satoru Gojo.

Professor Gojo.

Or, as you know him, Toru.

You’ve come a long way from ‘Professor Dickhead’ and ‘Miss Brat’ haven’t you both? From a bathroom at a club to an undying love, from aching for his touch in your seat to him being constantly all over you. From tentatively becoming boyfriend and girlfriend to being insane and getting married in the span of a few months, it feels so surreal.

You should be worried it’s too soon, worried about this or that, but all you can do is be so damn happy. You just feel euphoric, so enamored of him, by how much you adore him, love him, need him, and are unable to imagine your life without him. Can’t imagine yourself before him.

His eyes catch yours then, and he’s looking up and down your body carefully, before he gets the biggest grin on that handsome face, and instead of waiting for you to walk up to him… well, this is Satoru Gojo we’re talking about… he decides instead to run to you and pick you up in the center of the room, spinning you in the air, making you giggle breathlessly.

“Toru, stop it! Put me down!” Nanami and Suguru are chuckling, though tired, hungover chuckles, and Maki is just smiling at you two.

“You look so fucking gorgeous . I’m such a lucky man.” He eases you down, hands firm on your waist now, and you look up into his sparkling blue eyes, your lips trembling, arms wrapping around his neck.

“You’re insane too, you know. You’re supposed to wait up there for me!” He sighs, stepping back and looking at you again.

“God, this body in this dress…” He kisses you then, lips pressing on yours. You’re clinging to him, sighing into his lips, as his big hands take over your waist, cinched in the pretty wedding gown. “So beautiful.”

“And you’re the most handsome man in the world.” You whisper, looking up at him then, he’s exhaling, blue swirling gaze drinking in your face, as you drink him in, how perfect he looks, how he is your everything.

“Of course I am.”

“You’re also the most insane.”

He smirks now, grabbing your hand and yanking you along to where the justice of the peace is smiling, watching the two of you. “You knew that already.”

“You already kissed the bride!?” Suguru says, hiccuping then, you click your tongue at him.

“Too many shots, Suguru?”

“Yeah, yeah. Your fault.” He grumbles, you just giggle.

“How are you so bright eyed?” Nanami demands, leaning his head back on the bench with a grimace.

“Because I only had like two drinks, silly boys.”

“Silly boys! I’m older than you.” Suguru says.

“Hmm, still silly.” You stick your tongue out, and Suguru chuckles.

“You have your hands full.”

“Oh, I will.” Satoru says, wolfish grin, wiggling his brows, all of the room is laughing now, even Yuta, before he goes back to looking sick.

“Water.” He pleads, Maki hands him a bottle, he chugs and sighs. “I’ll be fine, promise!”

“Ahem, is everyone ready?” Says the young man in front of you now, amusedly watching you all, you nod shyly, taking Satoru’s hands now, your own are getting all sweaty with your nerves.

You’re doing this.

You’re marrying your Professor.

You’re marrying the best lawyer there is.

You’re marrying Satoru Gojo, the love of your life.

It’s like a dream, but it’s your reality, this goofy, silly, gorgeous man, that since you met him, you just cannot stand to live without. How could you ever spend even a day without being in his arms, without looking into the most beautiful set of eyes that existed? Without your favorite person, who has become so dear so fucking fast, as if he’d always been yours?

“Should I bother to say the typical stuff?” He asks Satoru then, and he chuckles, shaking his head.

“Keep it to the basics. We have our own things to say to each other.” The man nods then, looking at you now.

“Then would you like to go first, with what you’ve prepared?” You nod, taking several breaths to prepare. “Perfect, so we’re gathered here to celebrate the union of…” He says your name, making your heart race faster. “And Satoru Gojo. They’ve both got… well, a lot to say as I’m sure you all know.”

They all laugh, then eyes are on you. You look up into his eyes again, snowy lashes lowered, his face a little more serious, big hands clutching yours tightly, then you know, Satoru is just a little bit nervous too. The most calm and collected lawyer, who can laugh right in the face of any danger, is a nervous thing just like you, something about it melts you even more.

“Satoru, we met… well, in a nightclub. It’s not the most romantic place, is it? But somehow, it was romantic, when I bumped right into you, spilling my drink all over your very nice shirt.”

“It was four hundred dollars.”

“Stupid.” He snorts and you playfully shove him. “Let me finish!”

“Always.” You blush at his tone, then take another breath.

“It was romantic regardless, because it’s you, and you make any place in this world something beautiful, with your presence, with your light that just shines from you, with your beautiful soul.”

“Fuck off, brat.” He whispers, eyes glimmering with tears. You smile, blinking back your own emotions.

“You never let me finish my sentences, you’re so annoying, you’re childish, and you’re basically a hyper kid on chocolate.”

“Hey!”

“It’s true.” Suguru agrees.

“You… Satoru Gojo…” You hold his hand, bringing it to your lips, brushing them along the backside of his knuckles. “You fight for what you believe in, you are so authentically yourself, no matter what. You hold true to your convictions, and never waver. You’re so amazing, just as amazing as you like to say you are.” He smiles just a bit.

“I sure am.”

The room rolls its eyes. “You are also the love of my life. Truly, with you, it’s like I finally have a home. I  meant what I said that day, the day I confessed my true feelings, the love in my heart, that I will always be by your side. You never have to worry, or wonder, I’ll be right here. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.” You say, shaking as you do, overwhelmed by so much emotion.

Now you’re wiping his tears, he huffs, swiping them with the back of his hand, as are your friends, even the usually more stoic Nanami is swiping at his eyes. You feel your own tears falling, as you pour your heart out for him, knowing it’s safe to do so, knowing that.

“You accept everything about me, without question, you challenge me, make me think, make me do more, do better . You are the best man I’ve ever met, and I know you’ll be the best husband. And one day, I hope, an amazing father.” Satoru sighs now, resting his head on yours. “I love you Satoru Gojo, and I will love you, until the day I take my last breath, and even after.”

“Shit.” Is all he manages, and you giggle a bit, as now he’s kissing your salty tears, cupping your face.

“I’m ready for this, it’s insane, it’s probably too fast, but our relationship has been fast, intense, a hell of a ride. One I’m never getting off. I love you.” He kisses you again, your hands gently gripping his wrists as he keeps kissing you.

“You know you’re supposed to wait?” The man says, but even he has tears in his eyes.

“She’s a brat, she loves to make everyone cry like her.” Satoru says, and you glare, shoving at him.

“Now, it’s your turn Mr. Gojo. Can you top that?” He teases, clearly he is one of Satoru’s friends. Satoru grins now, nodding, swiping back that silky white hair, and looking down at you, eyes still glassy.

“Miss Brat.” You roll your eyes, giggling at him, looking at Maki for a moment who’s snuggled with Yuta, tissues smushed on her face with Yuta’s hand, not a sight you thought you’d see. Then you look back at your love.

“Professor.” You tease.

“I knew you were trouble the moment you ran into me, you were so clumsy you know.” You glare, and everyone laughs. “You didn’t belong there, something about you just seemed… different. When I first saw your pretty face, it was like a punch to the gut, like I couldn’t breathe for a moment.”

Your turn to be a ball of emotions, you are choking on a sob as he speaks. “You really felt that way?” You ask softly, he nods then.

“Fuck yeah I did, I played it off cool, or tried to, but you tilted my world on its axis, I knew you were so special, without even knowing you. Then, when we reconnected… god I couldn’t get you out of my head. I thought to myself, if I don’t have this girl, I can’t even go on, I need her in my life in some way. I couldn’t get the feel of your lips on mine out of my mind, like a brand on my mouth.”

His every word intoxicates you, touches you so deeply, how can you keep falling ever deeper into him? “Satoru…”

“I love you so much, I can’t even begin to really explain it, me… a man who can never shut the fuck up.” You smile, but it’s getting hard to see now, the tears flowing down your cheeks now. “But you left me speechless, you left me breathless, but then… now, I need you to breathe.”

“Like oxygen.” You whisper back, and he nods eagerly, cupping your face gently once more, thumb brushing your lips.

“Like oxygen. I need you, there is nothing without you, you are my world, and I will do everything to take care of you, every day, no matter what.”

“Oh Satoru…” You’re barely hanging on, in this little court house with a beautiful dress, and a gorgeous soon to be husband, saying things you once only heard in your dreams from him. Now, he’s yours.

“Do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband? In sickness, and in health, for as long as you live?” He asks now, and you nod, taking the beautiful ring that Maki runs up to you, Satoru’s eyes widen at it.

“Of course I do.”

“The ring! It’s badass as fuck.” He says, earning more laughter in the emotional little room, you slide the gleaming jeweled ring on his finger, your own hands shaking so much that he has to hold them again.

“And do you, Satoru Gojo, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife? In sickness and health, for as long as you live?”

“Oh, even after I’m gone, I’ll always love you.” He says, and fuck... You hope your waterproof makeup is doing its job, because you’re officially a wreck, when he pulls out a gold band that matches your ring, delicate with little diamonds all around it. Your heart swells when he kisses your hand once more.

“I now pronounce you both, husband and wife. I mean… you already kissed a ton, but, kiss again.” Satoru grins, as do you, then he’s got you lifted in his arms, spinning you in a circle, you cling to him like you did the night you met, when he’d first kissed you.

Your lips meld together, salty tears mixed with sweet breath, he finally eases you to stand, and your friends are clapping for you all, but your eyes are locked on his, as if he is the only thing in this room, in this world. You choke on your cry, sniffling now, but Gojo’s emotional too, as he strokes your cheek with the backs of his fingers, tilting your chin up.

“I love you, Miss Brat. Wife. Bratty wife.” You giggle again, leaning up and pulling him down by his jacket, kissing him over and over.

“And I love you, husband. My Toru.” It takes damn near everything to separate the two of you, friends dragging you apart just to get to reception (basically a big ass party you all are throwing) when all you can think of is fucking your husband .

Six Months Later

“All done for the day, Professor Geto.” You are interning with Professor Geto, you finally are done with your first year of law school today, the end of a very insane year. Though the school allowed you and Satoru to have class together, they took you out of any running of his internship, for favoritism reasons.

Little did they know Gojo was still hard on you in class, and pushed you to your limits, he certainly wouldn’t have given you that internship if you had not earned it, but you were lucky enough that Suguru chose you to do his. It was brutal, long hours, but you learned so much with him, it worked out perfectly.

The bonus was that Satoru, Nanami and Suguru all worked close together, and Maki and Yuta interned with Nanami, so you all saw each other constantly. The six of you were extremely close, even though you all had your own lives, especially you and Satoru now more so than ever.

Suguru smiles at you now, lips quirking up. standing and taking the thick binders you have for him. You’re the last one there in the office on his team, as you were trying to get all your work caught up to finish the semester, so that you can help Satoru with his next big case. You yawn again, and he pats your head, tilting his own as he studies you.

“You work too hard, you know. In your condition.”

“Hush!” You shut his mouth with your palm, looking around, and he’s chuckling against it. “What if someone was here!”

“They’re all gonna know next year, anyway, you know you’re gonna have a big ass kid with those Gojo genes.”

“Ugh, you’re telling me! Can you tell!?” You turn now, and he hums to himself, smirking now. “Oh tell me, already Suguru!”

“Not by your tummy, no… but…” He wiggles his brows, and you scowl.

“Oh you perv!” You cover your breasts with your jacket, fuming as you realize it’s not buttoning, only to hear more of him snorting in laughter. “Shit, you’re right.”

“I’m sure Satoru’s loving that.” You roll your eyes with a smile.

“You know he won’t leave me alone for two minutes-”

“Shnookums!” Satoru pounces into the room now, leaping to you and bringing you into his strong arms, kissing your neck over and over.

“You all are going to do great, promise.” He says to you both, and you melt, as does Satoru, grinning big at his best friend.

“And you’re gonna be the best Uncle, Sugu.” He says, before grabbing your breasts, and you smack his hands, as Suguru blushes, looking up at the ceiling of his office.

“Jesus, Satoru.”

“Toru, really!?”

“What they’re so comforting to squeeze. Fine…” He lets your breasts go, pressing on your tummy instead. “I just love touching you, been all day I just missed my girl…”

“Go on now, good luck with him, love.” Suguru says, waving you all off as Satoru drags you out of the building, you can barely keep up with him as you dart to the car waiting for you, Ijichi is there to greet you both, smiling tiredly.

“Mr. and Mrs. Gojo.” You give him a peck on the cheek and a smile, making him blush, before Satoru slides in next to you in the back of the car.

“You can’t just grab my tits like that in front of Sugu!” You huff, shoving at him, and he’s pouting, like he’s an innocent baby, and not a fiend.

“I’m sorry, but they’re so pretty! I just wanna love on you.” He nuzzles your throat now, pulling you to him, and you sigh as you sink into his embrace, inhaling that scent you love so much, body reacting quickly.

“Fine, you get away with it this time. Oh gosh, Toru, everyone will know I’m pregnant next semester. I’ll be a whale.”

“Will not! Don’t be a meanie to yourself. Gonna be beautiful.” He has you on his lap now, sideways, rubbing your tummy gently. You blink back emotions now, and he notices, kissing your lips softly. “Promise you will be.”

“I’m so excited, but so nervous! Do you think I’ll keep up with these studies with a baby?” Your hand joins his over your tummy now, bringing a sense of peace that washes over you, every time you’re with him.

“You are a nerdy brat, you can do it.”

“Hey!” He just chuckles, cradling you in his arms.

“You can do some at home studies for a while, maybe come back to campus in a bit, you know we can just bring the baby to law school. Get it in early.”

“A little scholar, huh?”

“Mmm… it’ll be a challenge, but you got it. We got it, you’re not alone in this, ever. I promise.” Satoru kisses you deeper now, still gently rubbing your tummy, you’re only three months along so not much has changed yet, but you both know, and can tell the smallest changes.

“I know you’ll help me no matter what, we are a team.” You caress his face softly as you speak.

“Damn right, also you’re young, you don’t have to knock out law school so fast, it’s not like you can’t come with me and learn any time. And I’ll be there to teach you, my favorite student.”

“Teach me, hmm?” You tease now, he grins.

“Yes, Miss Brat. You still have a lot to learn, you know. You’re a good student but you have some discipline issues.”

“Me!?”

“Mmm.” Satoru is stumbling with you as you kiss fervently, inside your home now, lips barely leaving yours, only to breathe, you all kick off your shoes, you toss your purse, he tosses his wallet, you yank off his tie, he shoves off your blazer.

You’re slowly just leaving a trail of clothes and items everywhere, until you’re in your bra and panties, tits overflowing already, aching and tender. Satoru’s full lips part, thin nostrils flaring. He’s unbuttoning his dress shirt, shaking his head slightly, you’re biting your lower lip, eyes lowering shyly, the whirl of the giant fans overhead cooling overheated skin.

“ Fuck… these tits, lemme see em, baby girl.” He pleads, and you unsnap your bra then, exhaling at how good it feels when they’re released, they bounce as they do, and Satoru’s on you in a flash, picking you up and sitting you right on the kitchen table, squishing them in his hands.

“Mmm, be easy, please.” You whisper, as his thumbs brush over your nipples, making you tremble at how sensitive they are already. He exhales, eyes locking as he presses you back gently, one hand sliding up your chest, the other playing with your breast easier now.

“They’re so sexy. Imagine when they’re all full of milk.”

“Toru!”

“What, it'll be hot.” You’re a blushing mess, and he chuckles, kissing down one of your breasts, to your nipple, sucking a peak in his hot mouth. “Mmm.”

“Mmm!” You both moan as he sucks on one, the pressure between your thighs building, the tension coiling in your lower tummy. “Toru…”

“Let me take my time, eager little brat.” He murmurs, now kissing your other breasts, tongue swirling around an areola, before he sucks the nipple in his mouth, making you wetter. You’re grinding your hips on the table, biting your lip, aching for more and more.

“Please…”

“Impatient, hmm?” Satoru’s big hands now slide up your thighs, smirking so sexy as he studies you. “Oh, those thighs love to shift for me, rub together, don’t they?”

“F-fuck off.” He glares then, yanking you off the table, turning you and unzipping your pencil skirt, you laugh breathless when it gets stuck then. “I’m getting all big already.”

“Shut up, you are not. I can’t wait till you do though.” He unzips you finally, revealing your lacy panties, he presses you down now, your breasts on the table, he’s kissing a trail between your shoulder blades.

“Mmm… Toru please touch me.”

“Not yet, patience, remember?”

“Fuck that- ow!” He smacks your backside, making you tremble at how good it feels, eyes fluttering shut when he grabs your ass now instead.

“You know I will still be your professor next semester, expect me to take it easy on you?” He smacks your other cheek now, and your thighs are trembling.

“Well, yes! I’m pregnant with your little baby lawyer!”

“No exceptions or favoritism in my class.” He says, acting so stern, you can’t take how sexy his voice is.

“But you’ll beat my ass, Professor!?”

“It looks so pretty with my hand prints.” He smacks each cheek again, stinging and burning, his free hand now sliding up your spine, entangling in your hair and pulling, you’re soaking wet against your panties, craving his touch. “Aw, you’re so, so eager, aren’t you baby?”

“You’re a tease, Satoru Gojo.” You whine out, earning that sexy chuckle. “I’m hornier more than ever.”

“I know, I love it. And so wet… oh fuck .” He’s rubbing you over your panties now, which are hopelessly soaked, wet spot soaking through. “You’re that wet?”

“Please, Toru…”

“Begging?”

“Mmhmm.” Is all you manage, normally you’d both play, a push and pull, tug of war of sorts, but you are needy for him, you’re clenching around nothing, wanting his fingers, his cock, wanting him .

“So easy for me?”

“Just for you.” You whisper, then he moans, and you hear his belt buckle, you arch up, earning another laugh.

“That easy!?”

“Put it in, please.” You are begging, pleading, arching your ass up, wanting more and more of his touch.

“Fuck…” Satoru is not one to just do that, he loves foreplay, but when he finds your dripping wet folds, pulling your panties to the side and rubbing, he’s moaning. “You’re stupid wet.”

“I know, I know. Please, just- ah!” Satoru slips his tip in barely, groaning as he feels you, you’re dripping all the way down to the kitchen tile, it’s so bad. You look back at him and watch his face contorted in pleasure, then your eyes roll back as his tip hits your clit, rubbing. “Mmm!”

Your clit is twitching under his tip, rubbing on it, and you’re just wetter and wetter, Satoru slides his cock up once more, coated in your slick now, pressing into your entrance, and you’re so ready you fall apart from his tip stretching you. Satoru is groaning, gripping your hips tightly, you’re nearly sobbing it’s so fucking good, when he presses further.

“Toru!”

“Oh my god… you’re so tight.” He whispers, sinking inside fully, so much pressure, you’re cumming then and there, and he stays there for a moment, unmoving, tense behind you. “You cummin already?”

“Fuck it, yes. More, please. Please .”

“Needy little brat.” He’s fucking into you now, tip dragging on your g spot, making you stupid, one hand back to pulling your hair, your thighs he spreads, to slide in with a long stroke once more, filling you so full.

You scream out now, hands gripping on the table as if it will tether you, but you’re falling apart under his strokes, getting wetter and wetter, walls clenching tightly around his cock. His balls are smacking your clit over and over, your ass is jiggling with every thrust of his pelvis, an ass he smacks again, stinging as the cool air above hits it, making you tighten around him more in response.

“Feel so fuckin good, baby girl. So good…” He huffs, slamming in and rolling his hips, tip grinding on your cervix, pulling you more until he has an entire arm wrapped around you.

“You feel s’good Toru…” You whisper back, then he’s flipping you, exhaling and kissing you deeply, you’re shivering when he sits you back on the table, sliding his cock back in, cupping your face with a free hand.

“Need to see your pretty face.” He whispers, and you shudder as he’s sinking deeper, clutching to his bare chest, kissing his lips softly, biting his plush lower lip, before your head falls back, and he’s kissing down your neck.

“Love you. Love you.” You whisper it over and over, now Satoru’s leaning over you, rolling his hips just the right way, until you unravel again for him, he presses every button, pulls every switch, he knows every bit of you. He has known you, the night you even met.

“I love you baby.” He whispers back, your lips slam together, tongues so messy, teeth clicking against each other as you feel his muscles ripple under your hands, as you feel his cock thickening. “Got you pregnant, hmm?”

“You did, you d-did…”

“Making you a mommy.” He murmurs, making your thighs tense around his hips, hands clutching in his silky white hair, desperately kissing him now.

“You did. You - ah - did!” You’re closer to the edge as your husband’s thickening now, throbbing in you, and your eyes lock, those glittering blue eyes that you could drown in for eternity, and never want to take a breath.

“Gonna fill you so good… f-fuck…” Satoru’s crying out right with you, his cock is pumping those ropes of cum inside your velvety walls, filling you so deep. You’re both drinking each others’ cries, moans, whispers, as you both come down, and you’re still feeling the aftershocks, pulsing his cum out down between you.

“Mmm… Toru…” You’re cock drunk, eyes fuzzy as he comes into focus, Satoru is stroking your hair, sighing, pecking little kisses all over your face now. “How is it even better than before?”

“I don’t know, it is though… you never could take me like that. You’re so slutty pregnant.”

“Slutty!” You glare, and he just laughs again, the sound filling you.

“Mmm, still just as tight, just sluttier.”

“Oh you- ah!” He pulls out of you then, picking you up carefully, bridal style, even after half a year of getting married, he likes to carry you to the room like this often, and you would be lying if you said you didn’t love it.

Marriage has been not without some trials, sometimes you both got on each other’s nerves, you had little debates and spats. Satoru was messy as fuck, and you didn’t like leaving a mess for the cleaners, he thinks that’s the job anyway, and just wants you to focus on school, or fucking him in every position possible. Or just wants you to look pretty when he gets home.

You are independent and strong willed, he knows you’ll never be his little housewife, and you know he really doesn’t want that, but he jokes all the time. He always pays for everything, and spoils you, buying too much jewelry, too many clothes, and any new gadget he thinks is cool, sometimes you have to take things back you don’t need, and earn his puppy dog eyes.

There are beautiful moments of being married to him, too, like having him constantly be there with you, hold you in his arms at night, and wake up to see his precious face next to yours. And the most beautiful moment so far, was when you all found out you’re having a baby, although you were on birth control, you both were surprised but then both of you had been elated.

You love the little peanut already, that’s what you all call them, they’re too tiny to know a sex yet, and they looked just like a peanut on that ultrasound. Satoru and you had it framed and sitting right on one of the dressers in what would soon be the baby’s nursery, you all have set up some of it already. It’s too early for all that truly, but Satoru got too excited.

And that’s the best part about Satoru, his excitement, his infectious happiness, in the face of anything, though he always shows you how he really feels, when he’s genuinely so happy, it radiates. He makes even the worst days so much better, massaging your back, buying your favorite cappuccino (decaf now, Satoru is reading too much about babies) or anything to comfort you.

And you comfort your husband, rubbing his neck after a long day, running him a bath and washing that silky white hair, bringing him his favorite drink after work. You both constantly read each other, it’s like you can feel what the other is feeling, a constant connection, a beautiful one.

“What are you thinking about, Miss Brat?” Satoru asks softly, he’s sat you on the edge of the sink, starting a hot shower, already steaming in the bathroom, the warm fog filling your lungs.

“How happy we are. How good this is. It feels like…”

“Perfect.”

“That.” He is between your thighs, cupping your face, your head falls back to look up at him. “It’s so perfect, us together.”

“And there are going to be three of us soon.” He murmurs, making you smile, looking down at your tummy, it’s a little poochy, perhaps only you and Satoru notice for now.

“A baby Gojo.” You whisper, smiling then, and he’s hugging you tightly, burying his face against your neck. “I want to be the best parent ever.”

“You will be.”

“And they’ll be… rich already. Holy shit.” You murmur, Satoru’s family had sent a cool five million for the baby, to have when they’re eighteen through a trust. Satoru had scoffed at it, but you did appreciate the gesture, of course Satoru had plenty of money, but your future baby Gojo could do a lot with that to start with.

“They did one decent thing, it’s still fuck them.”

You laugh then. “I’m still team fuck them.”

“Now… let’s shower, we have all weekend to relax.”

“You mean study your case!”

“Well that is relaxing for us.” You step into the hot shower now, head falling back when Satoru begins to suds up your hair, eyes shutting in bliss.

“I so love your hair washing skills.”

“Of course you do. I love washing your hair, little shnookums.” He kisses your forehead after he rinses the fragrant shampoo out, then it’s your turn, but of course he’s so tall he has to sit on the bench seat in the shower for you to wash his hair. “I’m so glad I fucking built this at the right height.”

He’s burying his face between your breasts now, making you giggle, as the hot water cascades down your back, easing stiff muscles. “I was curious that day when you told me to stand there.”

“Had to be at titty height.” You rinse his hair out now, before he stands, turning and sitting you on the new bench, a pretty black granite he’d recently installed. “I also had it made for…”

You hold your breasts together, and he slips his cock between them, already hard again, you whine out at it, at the sexy, lewd sight of his pretty pink tip pressing up between your lush breasts. “Fuck… that’s so…”

“Hot.” He finishes, whimpering out now, and you nod, looking up at him, holding your breasts together for him as he pumps, his free hand caressing your face. “God you’re so pretty .”

“You’re pretty.” He smirks down at you, now you’re spitting down his cock, making him lose it, he kneels once more, spreading your thighs right on the bench. “Aww look, she missed me.”

“You just fucked- ah!” You scream out when he’s lapping at your pussy, your head is resting back on the tile walls, his mouth devouring your pussy, blue eyes looking up at you, lashes dripping wet, water falling all over his perfect skin. “Toru…”

“Shh, let me and her talk. Rude.” You laugh but it’s cut off as he sucks your engorged little clit into his mouth, humming on it then, you’re gushing arousal all over his mouth, legs shaking violently, panting as it overtakes you. His hands glide down and up your slick thighs, fingers pressing in as he works you.

Your pussy is drooling down his mouth, he’s groaning as he keeps lapping at you, your screams echoing in the shower now. You’re starting to come down, so sensitive just his breath makes you jerk, and he relishes in it, in making you so weak and losing all your senses except how good he feels, how your entire body is just humming for him.

“You’re so yummy, Miss Brat.” Satoru slides back up, sitting on the bench with you now, pulling you into his lap. You look at him, grinding against his length. “Look at you, such a mess.”

“You make me that way.” Your words damn near slur, the heat of the shower, the orgasms, Satoru himself sapping it all from you.

“I love this bench.” You smile just a bit at his enthusiasm.

“You’re so cute- ah!”

“Cute, huh?” He’s shoved his full eight plus inches so deep in your pussy, grabbing your ass and slamming you down his length, stuffing you so full.

“Toru, fuck !”

“Not so cute, now. Aww, poor baby can’t take dick?” You glare, earning his grin, positioning your knees on either side, clinging to his back with your fingers, slipping and sliding, and lifting yourself, breasts pressed against his chest.

“Give it to me, Professor.” You whisper, only for him to pick you up then, pressing your back against the shower wall, fucking into you so deep it hurts, but it hurts so fucking good you’re falling apart in his grasp.

“Bratty, slutty student.” He huffs, shoving up, your thighs clinging to his slender hips as he pumps into your eager little pussy.

“I’m a… good student… fuck, fuck, fuck!” He bites the fuck out of your neck now, with those sharp teeth, you gasp as your pussy is clenching around him.

“A good girl, are you?”

“Yes!” You breathe out, between pumps.

“Mmm… you feel good, but I don’t know. Should I let you cum?”

“Please!”

“Since you asked so sweetly.” He pulls back his head, shoving his cock inside you, watching you, studying you, your eyes flutter shut as you’re about to cum once more, but he grabs your chin. “No, look at me.”

So you do, you struggle to keep those eyes open, looking at him as you’re cumming even harder than before, so hard you’re crying, tears slipping down your cheeks. “T-Toru…”

“Aw, you crying?” You just nod weakly, moaning out, and then he’s pulsing inside you. “So fucking pretty crying for me, too.”

He busts inside you now, groaning as he finds his release, clinging to your body, crying out, filling you up so full. “Yes, yes… fill me.”

“Two loads already, so slutty.”

“You… you’re slutty.” You manage, both of you laughing then, he eases you down on wobbly legs now, holding you by your hips.

“And you’re weak.”

“Fuck you!”

“I just did.”

“Sure did.” You’re grinning, and you both laugh, before you kiss each other, and clean up further.

Later on, you both are having dinner, while Satoru has his next case sprawled all over the table. You both snuggle up next to each other on the couch as he spreads files, pictures, and notes out on the table, nibbling on take out together, the white boxes and little red symbols and chopsticks, no dishes for you all. You look over the glossy eight by ten photos as you nibble on your rice.

“She was my age, fuck.” You say softly, as you look at the picture now, she was a pretty young woman, a young environmental activist as well.

“The worst part, she had a kid.” You sigh, putting the food down, and touching your tummy without thinking, and Satoru wraps an arm around you, protective and strong. “I know, baby.”

“Fuck… so the suspect is this guy?” You tap a nice looking guy with glasses.

“Mmm, yeah but I don’t know if I should buy it.”

“You think he’s a scapegoat?”

“Sure the fuck do.”

“So who are the suspects?”

“Him, him and him. They’re all super corporate, rich as fuck, whereas the guy I’m representing is Pro Bono, so he’s…”

“Not wealthy at all.” You finish.

“Exactly, they wanna pin this shit on him. This is something on the higher ups, too.” The distaste is apparent in Satoru’s voice. You snuggle to him now, and he brushes your hair back, kissing your forehead gently.

“We’ll help them, if he’s wrongly convicted, you’re the best defense attorney there fucking is.”

“And you’re going to be the best prosecutor there is.”

“Imagine us going against each other!?” He laughs then, shaking his head at you. “Bet I’d kick your ass.”

“Nah, I’d win.”

“Whatever!” You both pour over more of the documents together, it’s been a while since you could help with a case with school, but the break will be so lovely, so much time spent with your husband. “I’d win.”

“You wish, little brat. Damn, our baby is gonna be a menace.” He says, smirking, and you grin so big, images flitting through your mind.

“The most competitive lawyer ever!”

You both laugh then, eventually setting aside the evidence, Satoru is putting on a movie, but you’re not paying much attention, starting to feel sleep tug at you. You’re yawning, and Satoru is stroking your waist gently, you snuggle even deeper against his hard body, letting the warmth sink in.

“You’re always sleepy now. Can’t make it past a trailer.” He teases, you sigh, hiding another yawn.

“It’s the baby I think. It’s like sucking all my energy.”

“Gonna be a six foot tall kid.”

“Let’s hope they take after the shorter side of this family!” His shoulders shake with his laughter.

“Ugh, family though.” He says softly.

“Family.” You repeat lovingly, cupping his face and looking up at him. “Let us get some rest, we can study more tomorrow.”

“You wanna cuddle, hmm?”

“Yes.”

“Anything for you, Shnookums.” Satoru carries you to the bed. “Spoiled, lazy little thing.”

“You spoil me on purpose.” You snatch his best pillow with a wicked grin, earning his narrowed eyes.

“I’ll tickle you to death.”

“No! Fine, we’ll share then, meanie.” He snuggles behind you, long limbs taking over much of the bed, even as big as it is, wrapping around you tightly. You feel such peace, so comfortable, you can barely hold your eyes open for another minute.

“You’re like a little old lady, always crashing out. Drooling.” He says then, stroking your tummy gently, he’s been doing it since he found out. Your hand joins over his own, looking back at him over your shoulder.

“I’m too comfy, your fault.”

“Is it now?”

“Admit your guilt.” He’s grinning, you’re trying to keep your eyes open, but Satoru feels too heavenly.

“I admit no fault, brat.”

“Mmm… contempt of my court.”

“You’re silly. Go to sleep.” You both smile against each other’s lips, and you fall fast asleep, dreaming about this baby on the way, dreaming of Satoru holding a baby in his arms, and the love in your heart, like you’ll burst.

Satoru studies the smile on your sleepy face, wondering just what it is his pretty student thinks of, before burying his face against your neck, and falling fast asleep, where he feels so damn good, with you in his arms.

Taglist: @jjknanamin @chiyokoemilia @marie-is-in-the-dark @seeing-stars-alt @maskedpacific @aldebrana @toffeebrat @antisocialinlw @trishiepo0 @jkslaugh97 @makingtimemine 

Final Chapter

[glossypolaroidkisses]

part 2 — painting luigi blue

w/c: 1.2k | part 1

You don't wipe the paint off your cheek.

You settle into your spot on the couch, flipping through pages, highlighting notes, half-distracted by the noise of the campus outside. The distant echo of the pep rally makes its way through the walls—cheers, music, some guy with a megaphone hyping up the crowd.

You could have gone, but you stayed here instead. And the paint stayed too. Sure, it would take less than a minute to wash off, but... you don't. Maybe because a part of you is waiting.

The door slams open, crashing against the wall hard enough to rattle the frame. You jump, your book slipping from your hands.

Sam stumbles in first, one arm wrapped around Cassy's elbow as he half-guides, half-drags her inside. They're both absolutely wrecked.

"Oh my god," Cassy breathes, her head lolling back dramatically as she kicks off her shoes—except she completely misses, and they just land in the middle of the floor. "That was the best night of my life."

Sam, blinking slowly like he's fighting sleep standing up, raises a heavy hand. "I— Second. Yeah. Me too."

You can't help but laugh, covering your mouth in disbelief as you watch them stumble in.

Luigi follows last, closing the door with significantly less force. He's not exactly sober—there's a slight sway to his step, a lazy delay in his blinks—it's kind of cute. And compared to them, he's the picture of stability.

You lift a brow. "Good night?"

"A great night," Cassy corrects, pointing at you but missing by a few inches. "Pep rally was wild."

"She cried," Sam supplies, eyes half-lidded.

Cassy gasps, scandalized. "I did not—"

"You did," Luigi cuts in, voice lazy, amused. "During the fight song."

You bite back a smile. "That emotional, huh? So patriotic, Cassy..."

"She got really into the school spirit," Luigi smirks. "And that's coming from me."

"Excuuuse me for caring about our institution," Cassy huffs, wobbling slightly as she places a hand on her chest.

She sways dangerously, veering toward the doorframe. You push off the couch, instinct kicking in. "Do you need help—" But just as she's about to collide, Cassy miraculously corrects herself, sidestepping with a graceful—if slightly delayed—sweep of her arm. "I'm fine," she insists, waving you off as she disappears into her room.

The door clicks shut.

"Yeah, I'm gonna..." Sam gestures vaguely at his own room, then staggers inside without another word, door swinging shut behind him.

Which leaves just you and Luigi. The room feels... different. Quieter.

He exhales, pushing off the doorframe and walking toward you. There's a slight unsteadiness to his step, but he flops down onto the couch beside you with a practiced ease. "Didn't think you'd still be up," he says, voice low, a little rough.

You shrug. "Still studying."

He huffs a quiet laugh. "Nerd."

"Says you, Mr. 4.0 GPA who painted his entire body for the pep rally."

Luigi smirks, tilting his head. "Correction—for free drinks. And you didn't seem to mind helping me." His gaze flicks over you, sharp and amused. Then it pauses. "You still have that on your face?"

You hum, acting casual. "Mhm."

His brow furrows slightly. "You didn't wash it off?"

"Nope." You stretch your legs out, tone deliberate. "That's your job."

Luigi blinks, caught off guard. Then he exhales a quiet laugh, like he can't believe you just said that. "Oh, it's my job?"

"Yeah." You tilt your chin up. "You put it there. You clean it up."

Luigi shakes his head, amused. "You're ridiculous." But he shifts, turning toward you. His knee brushes against yours as he lifts a hand.

You freeze. His fingers graze your cheek, slow and deliberate, the warmth of his skin lingering as his thumb swipes gently over the paint. His touch is careful—softer than it should be. His breath fans against your face as he leans in slightly to focus.

Neither of you moves.

It's cute, the way he squints slightly, like he's wiping away the paint with such precision. But you don't think it takes this much effort. You don't think he needs to be this slow.

And yet neither of you speaks. Neither of you pulls away.

His thumb lingers, just barely ghosting over your cheekbone. And when his eyes flicker to yours, there's a moment—just a moment—where he hesitates.

Then, his hand drops.

"There," he murmurs, voice rough. "All better."

You swallow, your heart hammering. You should say something. Anything. Instead, your gaze drifts over him—over the blue still smudged along his jaw, his temple, his neck.

"You, uh..." You wet your lips. "You're still a mess, though."

Luigi smirks. "Yeah?"

You nod, maybe a little too fast. "Yeah."

His gaze flickers, something sharp and teasing sparking in his eyes. "And?"

You inhale. "And... I should help clean up my mess too, shouldn't I?"

Luigi stills. It's brief—almost imperceptible. But you see it. The way his smirk falters. The way his throat bobs slightly.

Your words hang in the air, charged. Because cleaning him up? That's not a swipe of a thumb over his cheek.

His smirk returns, slower this time. Knowing. "Oh?" he murmurs.

You swallow. "I mean—you are covered in paint."

He leans back slightly, lazy and smug. "And how exactly do you plan to fix that?" Your stomach flips. He's going to make you spell it out. Was this a mistake?

Luigi just watches you, gaze flickering, waiting. You could acknowledge the weight of his stare, the way the air between you has stretched thin, humming with something unspoken. You could lean into the tension, let it pull you toward whatever this is—whatever it has been, marinating between you.

You hesitate, fingers curling against your lap.

"I..."

Luigi raises a brow, slow and amused. "You...?"

Your face heats. You should stop, say nevermind. You should not be sitting here, staring at his very paint-covered face—not to mention the rest of him—and thinking about all the ways you could get it off of him.

And yet, "I just meant—"

"You just meant," Luigi echoes, smirk widening. It’s safe to say that alcohol has never done anything to tame his antics or sarcasm.

You glare. "Do you want my help or not?"

Luigi hums, pretending to think. "Depends. What's your method?"

You blink. "My.. method.”

"Your method," he repeats, tilting his head. "Washcloth? Makeup remover?" He leans in slightly, voice dropping, deep and raspy. "Unless you had something else in mind,"

Your breath catches.

Okay.

Okay.

So you definitely walked into that one.

Luigi knows exactly what he's doing—knows exactly how flustered you are right now. And the worst part? He's enjoying it.

"You are so annoying," you mutter.

"And yet..." Luigi drawls, "you're the one offering to help me."

He's not wrong. You inhale sharply, fingers twitching. "Fine," you say, pushing up from the couch. "Forget it.”

But before you can fully step away, his hand wraps around your wrist.

A gentle grasp; Warm, safe.

You freeze.

"Wait," he murmurs.

Not teasing. Not smug. Just—something else. Slowly, you look back at him. And suddenly, you're not so sure you want to leave.

part 3 sooooonnn hehehe mwah

tag list 🏷️ my loves ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ @cherrymangione @slavicdolls4mangione @iinfinitelimits @poohkie90 @luweegeeswifey @number1yearner @noname123sposts @straw8berry @lavenderbabyyy @littlestl4mb @amoungusbartholo (lmk if u wanna be added or removed xx)

[snowflakes-and-cupcakes]

— this is what forever feels like x mathew barzal

chapter 3: blue and orange skies

♡ word count: 3.3k ♡ contains: you guessed it—more Barzy flirting main ♡ prev ♡ next

You’ve been seeing Mat off and on. His schedule is a wreck, he tells you with seriousness that makes you laugh, but you’re surprisingly fine with that. Being in each other’s orbit and squeezing in late nights and early mornings when he isn’t laser-focused on hockey is different for you, but different is good.

Things being way, way more casual than you’re used to makes it easier to agree to them, and you find yourself saying yes to pretty much anything Mat suggests.

Over pad see ew and green curry in a dimly lit den in Queens, he says, “Come to a game.”

You peer at him over the rim of your Thai tea glass. “Sure.”

The game is buzzing with life. The Islanders are on fire all night long. As you sit in between Hope and Katy, you laugh freely, talking about everything and nothing.

“Seriously,” Katy says, “we should find a way to sneak our own snacks in. Staff privilege. Hope, you’ve got to have a way—”

“Nope,” Hope pops the p.

“You just paid $15 for that sandwich!”

“With,” you insist, “the staff discount.”

“Oh my god,” she groans, “it’s just because I didn’t have time to eat before the game. Next time—”

She gives you both a look.

“—we’re doing tacos at Uptown.”

You wistfully sigh and glance down at your sad arena pretzel and White Claw. What you would give for a good carne asada right now is criminal.

Katy nudges you once all three of you are huddled together, standing up to stretch during intermission. “So, settling in? Loving the island?”

“Well…” You trail off, trying to play off your inner turmoil as a joke.

“It’s okay,” she laughs. “You can say you hate us all and can’t wait to run back to Manhattan.”

Yeah, and where would you run? You huff and try to make it sound like a laugh. “I don’t hate anyone.”

Her brow playfully raises. “But?”

“But,” you give Hope a sympathetic look, “I’m so over roommates. I’ve got to get my own place.”

Hope taps her drink against yours. “I wouldn’t want to live with me if I were you, either. Way too uptight.”

“It’s really more like I need another bedroom just for my books.” You frown, wrinkling your whole face. “Oh, no. Am I lame?”

Katy plops down beside you, finally. “No, just approaching thirty.”

All three of you bring your drinks together for that one.

One thing you notice at your first in-person hockey game since you were a kid, spending alternate weekends with your dad, is that it’s so fast. Maybe a part of it is Mat himself, since he’s the one your eyes are always on when blue streaks back and forth beyond the glass. Maybe, just maybe, you’re watching him on purpose.

It’s hard to focus on anything but the number thirteen when it sails by.

Right in front of you, seemingly out of nowhere, he digs in and flips the puck like it’s the simplest thing in the world. It’s more like play, less like a competition—

The puck lands right in front of Bo.

You blink—quickly learning your lesson that you should never do that during live hockey—and the puck flicks into the back of the net. The three of you are on your feet with the team and the rest of the crowd, arm-in-arm, joining in on the celly like you belong here.

You do. You do belong here.

One of the Terrace bars mysteriously clears out after the game, and you discover that it’s so the team can join the staff and share a drink before everyone scatters to their separate parties for the night. You don’t realize that you’re included in that until Katy puts a drink in your hand and you notice several more familiar faces around you.

“Tell me you got that backhand goal,” one of the social media managers gushes at one of the videographers. Catching your eye, she waves you over.

The videographer has his phone out, and soon enough a small group of your coworkers gathers to watch Mat as he cuts through a cluster of the other team’s players coming out of a faceoff. He sees the chaos in front of him and manipulates it like he owns it, with untouchable, breathtaking speed.

He’s totally focused, and the only thing more beautiful to watch than the replay was being there to see it live.

You’re so glad you came.

The energy swells as the players trickle in. It’s Mat’s night, so you’re content to steal glances at him while you settle in with your own coworkers, the nameless owners of the thankless jobs lucky to be in this orbit. He smiles as he bounces throughout the room, tossing his head back to laugh or squeezing someone in a one-armed hug. 

You’re not the only one watching the other person, though. When whatever conversation he’s having falls into a lull, his eyes wander looking for the next. Again and again, they come to you.

He finally cuts through the crowd. Pink-cheeked, drink in hand, smile plastered on his face, he drags you into a two-armed hug. You nestle against him, laughing. “Hi, Mat.”

There’s your star of the game.

Your?

He pulls away and leans against your table to bask in the congratulations your coworkers throw at him. When he looks back down at you, there’s a conspiratorial tilt to his smile. “Gonna congratulate me?”

You make a noncommittal noise and hide your own smile. “I don’t know; I thought Bo did a better job.”

They’d each scored spectacular goals in the 6-2 win.

He laughs, and competitiveness flashes across his features as he bends to lean closer to you. “I can’t believe you just said that to my face.”

“I think you like it.” And if you know anything, you know you like this—the way Mat’s presence draws something out of you, makes you feel flirty and fun. This feels right, like the version of you from before was a shadow of yourself, and the real you is finally free.

His gaze sweeps over you, but his eyes catch on what you’re wearing and his smile dims a little. “What, no one thought you needed a jersey?”

There’s a hint of churlishness there. You look down at your outfit—generic Islanders hoodie, jeans—and then back up at him. “I thought this was fine.”

“It is,” he says so quickly you know it’s a lie. “Totally fine. For, you know, a fan.”

“I am a fan.”

He shakes his head, looking anywhere except at you. “You work here.”

And? Pretty much all of your coworkers are wearing the same thing.

“Mat,” you say slowly, lowly, like a playground secret. “Why do I need a jersey?”

He looks back at you. Whatever hesitance had gotten into him fades, and that easy smile comes back as he rests both elbows on the metal high-top. He leans over it, his whole body hovering above, and now he’s just a few inches from your face.

Your gaze darts down to his mouth.

He smiles wider, letting the seconds stretch like he’s basking in them. 

“Because if you’re gonna chirp me, you should at least be wearing my number when you do it.”

Oh.

Your eyes widen. He pulls back, snapping the tension to remind you that he’s the one in control of it. “Else I might think you like Horvat better, and then I’ll be sad. Do you want to make me sad?”

You regain yourself just in time to mutter, “Someone has to keep you humble, no?”

He’s back to his usual crooked grin. “That’s a full-time job, writer.”

“I mean,” you tut, “if you’re paying…”

He sidles closer, rounding the high-top with just a pointed shift of his hips. Hand on your waist, he drags you closer, and that smile is turned on you alone. “Let me buy you a drink at Delilah’s after this?”

You laugh, an easy, bubbly sound. “That’s a start.”

Delilah gives everyone her signature, wordless “no hockey” look as soon as your smaller group filters into Speakeasy, but she just sighs and gets a round of glasses out for the regular drinks. You know by now that she’s used to this; the “no hockey” thing is a draw for a certain type of player who needs real separation, who needs to cool off so he can maybe have a chance of getting some sleep the night after a game.

Some people wind up. Others wind down. You’re the latter, and it always surprises you when—not every night you’re here, but a lot of them—Mat is here too. This is the first night you show up on his arm, though.

You cling to a fold of his sweatshirt near his elbow, not wanting to be separated from him when people cram into the narrow space. He looks over his shoulder at you, smiling as if to promise he’d never let that happen.

Soon enough, the bar is full of Islanders and the people who love them. The atmosphere is bright and buzzy, and not just because of the cocktail in your hand or the man’s chest you’re pressed up against.

Has Speakeasy always been this small?

Mat’s hand starts tracing shapes against your back. “Oh, yeah. Right here.”

You look over your shoulder. “What are you doing?”

“You can’t feel that?” He laughs, and his other hand settles on your shoulder, stilling you. “Here. Pay attention.”

You shiver. Why does it feel so good when he teases you?

Instead of letting your mind wander in search of answers, you look forward again, resting your elbows on the bar. He traces over your back with two fingers, and the drag is slow, pointed. He pauses before changing directions, letting you feel when one shape ends and the other begins.

Oh, god.

“Are you serious?” you laugh. “Get over the jersey thing.”

“Nah.” Now, he’s walking his fingers up your spine just because he can, just because you finally figured out he was tracing his number on your back. “I need a thirteen, right here.”

Someone calls Mat’s name before you have a chance to answer, but the tension is there. It lingers and settles, warm and soft yet full of anticipation. Wear my jersey. Wear my number. Put my name on your back so everyone can see it.

What’s the difference between you and the thousands of fans who already do that, except for the fact that he looks at you like he can’t stand the thought of sharing you?

His hand glides over your spine and settles on your waist. “Come on,” he says. “You good?”

You haven’t talked about what happened at the cafe since your walk, but something still lingers in between you. The way Mat’s been looking at you lately, it’s like the curtain separating who you are from who you want others to see you as is sheer, not opaque. 

His eyes don’t hold pity, though. When he looks at you, it’s like a secret conversation passes from his eyes to yours, asking if you’re okay.

You smile at him and tip your head toward the row of booths.

Slid in between Noah Dobson with Alexa halfway on his lap and Mat on your other side, you smile at Emily and Scott Mayfield across from you. The booth is tight with six people packed in, but there’s a glass and a pitcher of margaritas in front of you, so you can’t bring yourself to care.

“First game, right?” Emily asks, leaning so she can hear you better over the din. “You should sit with us next time. You and your friends, I mean.”

“She won’t want to,” Mat chirps. “Won’t even wear a number.”

Shrugging, you sip your drink. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t wear any number.”

You also didn’t say you wouldn’t wear thirteen, but you let that remain implied, ribbing him right back.

“Number eight!” Alexa suggests, grinning. “We can twin!”

“Everyone wears number eight at the next game,” Emily laughs. “For fun.”

Scott holds up a hand, but he’s laughing too, even though the chirping has suddenly, somehow, grown to include him instead of just Mat. “I don’t know about that—”

“But I wear twenty-four all the time!”

He gives his wife an incredulous look. “You’re supposed to!”

Noah rolls his head back, physically leaning out of the conversation to look at Mat from behind you. “You’re quiet. Got nothing?”

Just like that, the whole table’s attention is on Mat. In the time you’ve known him, he’s never been one to shy from that, so he doesn’t—not really. He smiles his crooked smile and it even reaches his eyes, but there’s a slight tension in his throat that makes you tilt your head.

He shrugs. “You’re all full of shit.”

“Wow,” Noah says dryly. “Burn.”

Everyone laughs—even you, even Mat—and the conversation floats on. Alexa’s been traveling for work, and Noah looks at her with overwhelming fondness when she regales the people she’s talked to and the stories she’s told as a sports journalist. Scott mentions their dog, and Emily lights up when you ask her to tell you about him.

With so little room in the booth, you end up resting against Mat. He tenses when you do, and you instantly recognize how strange that is. Isn’t this the same man who just had his hands all over your back? You’ve been in his lap before, held his hand—so what’s this?

The way he rubs his pinky over his glass, fidgeting, is a tell that he’s in his own head.

“Hey.” You nudge his hand with your three-quarters-empty glass. “One more cocktail before the carb cravings hit.”

You want him to laugh. You really want him to laugh because of an inside joke that’s just yours.

All you get is a smile, but at least it’s affectionate. “Rain check.”

Before you can question that, his smile widens into something sheepish that begs you to understand. “I can’t have fries after every win. Game in a day and a half, yeah?”

Finally, he touches you, but it’s just to squeeze your thigh as he gets up. “I’ll be right back.”

He takes his empty glass and walks it back to the bar, murmuring something to Delilah as she takes it from him. His smile is polite, but when she turns away, he rests his elbows on the bar and leans his weight onto them, stretching out.

His face falls, and that’s when you get up.

“Mat.” You move to angle yourself in front of him. You don’t recognize this feeling in yourself. It’s a desire to fight, not to argue—protectiveness, you realize, is the emotion setting you aflame right now. “What’s up?”

He wets his lips, staring aimlessly over your head. When he looks down at you, it’s intense, with the same fiery feeling you recognize in yourself. 

“I just…” He shakes his head. “I don’t know. I’m hung up on stuff. Don’t worry about it.”

You frown at him. “Of course I’m going to worry about you.”

This is the moment when you learn Mat is a lot better at expressing how he feels with actions rather than words.

It starts when his brow furrows and his jaw sets. When he looks down at you again, the tension in his expression makes you stand stock-still, looking back. He’s focused the way he is in games, making quick and decisive decisions to get his goal.

His hands come up to cradle your face, tilting your chin up with a gentle press of his thumbs. This is a little possessive, you think; it’s heady and all-encompassing, a move that makes the world shrink down to pools of hazel and aquatic cologne. 

Something inside you opens up—vulnerable, bare, exposed to him. You don’t hate that feeling. Showing him your softness like a precious secret feels good. Right.

One of his thumbs drifts up and swipes over your cheekbone. “You’re so fucking pretty.”

You can’t help it. “So are you.”

He watches your mouth, licking his own lips. “Wear my jersey next time.”

It’s not a question, but a promise and a demand wrapped up in one. There’s going to be a next time, and he wants you marked as his. He wants what his teammates have, you realize; he wants his own number in the cluster of wives and girlfriends in the stands. It’s something tied to his self-worth in a way you can’t quite grasp. What you do grasp, though, it’s that it’s something meaningful, if not permanent.

Can you do that? Can you be that?

You hesitate. Something changes in his eyes, a storm of passion flicking through bolts of nerves and determination.

And then he kisses you. He kisses you like he’s serious, like he’s committed to learning every inch of your mouth inside and out. Both of his hands start on your jaw, but one slowly slides down. It memorizes the curve of your neck, the slope of your shoulder, and the arch of your back. It plants itself on your hip, dangerously close to your ass, and his fingers flex like he wants a handful.

He leans back and draws you up, into him. He’s not quite sitting on the bar behind him, but he leans in a way that forces you to brace your hands against his chest and cling for balance.

He teases you with his tongue, not wanting to explore too deep but just grazing, just tasting; it’s a flick against your lower lip and a quick brush against your tongue, nothing more, but there’s something so expert about it that your head spins.

But it’s not just the skill; the way he kisses you is less about the act itself and more about the who. You shift, hiking one of your thighs up to press against his crotch, and his hips buck right into you.

He bites your lower lip when he pulls away. His face is just as flushed as you feel. “Don’t do that to me, gorgeous. It makes me hard.”

A deep breath and a shared look later, you shake your head. It feels so good to make a man like this lose himself just a little. “Don’t pretend you don’t want to be.”

He smirks. “Wear my jersey.”

It dawns on you. “You’re jealous.”

He makes a noncommittal grunt.

“Mat.” Your gaze darts down to his mouth, then back up to his eyes, and you trail your knee up his inner thigh again. “Noah, Scott, everyone else—”

He starts to shake his head, eyes hazy and watching your mouth. “Don’t—”

“You want what they have.”

Instead of answering, he takes you by the jaw and tugs you into another kiss. This one is a little rougher, a little hotter, and much more questioning. He dives in like he wants to drown in you.

When he pulls away, you’re both panting. 

“I’m going to buy one and have it dropped off at your office on Monday,” he says, and it’s somehow the hottest thing ever. 

You can’t think straight. For a moment, you surface. Something whispers that this is maybe not a good idea, but everything else in you swears that it is. Maybe you want what Alexa and Emily have. You want to sit in Mat’s lap after a game. You want to get a dog with him. You want to wear his jersey, or at least blue and orange, at every home game. You want him to look for you, to hold you, to touch you—

So you nod, feeling just a little dizzy, and press your mouth against his to dive right back in. 

@barzygirl13 @47chickens @sporadicpizzainternet ♡ comment below or on the main post to be tagged please!

[marinersapartmentc0mplex]

Never Let Me Go

Damian Wayne x Journalist!OFC

Chapter Seven: Fake Empire

TW(s): descriptions of aftermath of explosion, corruption, racist themes

Ao3 Link & Previous Chapter

The east wing of Gotham Mall was a wreck.

Steel beams jutted out from the collapsed roof, jagged and warped from the force of the explosion. Glass crunched underfoot, reflecting the erratic red-and-blue flashes of emergency lights. Smoke coiled in the frigid night air, tinged with the acrid stench of burnt plastic, insulation, and something sharper—natural gas, still leaking from somewhere deep in the wreckage. Firefighters moved quickly to contain the spread, hoses blasting down embers that hissed and sputtered against wet concrete.

Robin didn’t stop to take it all in. He had a job to do.

He moved swiftly through the debris, stepping over fallen display racks and shattered tiles, the sharp bite of chemical fumes stinging his throat. The remnants of storefronts stood like broken teeth, their glass windows blown out, their neon signs flickering uselessly in the smoke-choked air. A mannequin lay discarded in the wreckage, half-buried under a collapsed section of ceiling, its plastic hand reaching skyward like some lifeless survivor.

Then, movement.

A few feet ahead, a young woman lay half-pinned beneath a fallen concrete slab, her face pale, her breathing shallow. Blood streaked the side of her head, dark against the fluorescent spill of a dying overhead light.

Robin was at her side in an instant, his gloved fingers pressing against her neck—pulse present, weak but steady.

“Hey,” he said, voice firm but low, more for himself than for her. “Stay with me.”

No response. Her chest barely rose and fell beneath the dust-streaked fabric of her jacket.

Robin adjusted his stance, bracing his shoulders as he slid his arms beneath her, careful of her head. The concrete wasn’t fully crushing her—just heavy enough to keep her trapped—but one wrong move could send the rest of the unstable wreckage down on top of them both.

His comm crackled.

“Robin, status?”

“Got a live one,” he said, shifting his weight as he lifted. “Unconscious, no immediate spinal trauma—breathing’s shallow, though. I’m getting her out.”

The slab shifted with a low, grating groan as Robin lifted it just enough to pull the woman free. His muscles tensed under the strain, his suit absorbing the rough scrape of debris against his arms. Dust billowed up in the cold night air, clinging to his gloves and settling in the folds of his cape. Cradling her securely against his chest, he moved swiftly, stepping over unstable ground and weaving through the wreckage as he carried her toward the triage zone.

Outside, the parking lot was a controlled mess of sirens and flashing lights. Fire crews worked to contain the lingering hotspots, their boots splashing through puddles left by high-pressure hoses. Police had pushed the crowd back beyond the cordons, but reporters had already gathered, cameras flashing against the smoke-stained sky.

Robin stepped out of the wreckage and into the chaos, scanning the triage tents for an opening. A paramedic flagged him down near an ambulance, already reaching for a fresh set of gloves.

“Head wound,” Robin reported, laying the woman down on a stretcher. “Unconscious for at least five minutes. Pulse is weak, but stable.”

“We’ll take it from here,” the medic assured him, voice tight with focus.

Robin stepped back from the stretcher as the paramedics worked, his mind already moving to the next task. His breath was steady, but the cold air felt harsher now, raw against his throat after the smoke and dust inside. He could still feel the strain in his arms from lifting the woman out of the rubble, the weight of her body gone but leaving behind the sensation of pressure, the faintest tremor of exertion in his muscles. 

This wasn’t their usual patrol window.

Batman and Robin didn’t normally work these hours—at least, not where people could see them. By now, Gotham’s streetlights had flickered on, their dull orange glow fighting a losing battle against the deeper dark settling over the city. Normally, this was the transition point, the quiet stretch where Gotham’s evening crowd bled into its nighttime pulse. The worst of the rush hour traffic had faded, shopfronts had closed their doors, and the last trains out of the city rattled along their tracks. This was still Signal’s time, the hours before midnight where he kept the streets from unraveling, handling carjackings, assaults, gang activity, the things that didn’t lurk in alleys but prowled openly in the half-light. This was when people still thought Gotham was manageable, when the crime was something that made the news instead of the morgue.

But explosions changed things. Mass casualties changed things.

There were still civilians trapped inside, still people stumbling through the wreckage, bleeding, disoriented, their hands shaking as they clutched at wounds they hadn’t registered yet. The fire department was stretched thin, their teams working fast to suppress hotspots, to keep the gas leaks from triggering something worse. The GCPD was scrambling to lock down the scene, issuing conflicting orders as they tried to process the scale of the destruction. The perimeter was barely holding, reporters pressing too close to the cordons, cameras flashing in the smoke-heavy air, their voices rising as they shouted over one another, each one trying to be the first to turn tragedy into headlines. The chaos was still shifting, still alive, just changing shape. The immediate danger had passed, but the weight of the aftermath settled over everything like a second wave waiting to break.

Robin’s eyes swept across the parking lot, tracking movement—fire crews moving between the wreckage, officers securing exits, paramedics moving from stretcher to stretcher, performing triage under harsh LED floodlights. 

His gaze swept over the triage area, past the ambulances lined up like sentries, past the scattered civilians wrapped in shock blankets, until it landed on a familiar figure.

Elena Gold.

She was sitting on the edge of an ambulance, her left arm secured in a sling, her right hand curled into the fabric of her skirt. She wasn’t talking, wasn’t moving much, and her reactions to the paramedic’s questions were slightly delayed as her gaze locked on the ruins of the mall, unblinking, as if trying to make sense of it. 

A few feet away, Amrita and Lila—Elena’s friends—hovered, speaking hurriedly into their phones. Their voices were lost in the noise, but Robin caught the quick, jerky motions of Amrita’s free hand, the way Lila kept glancing at Elena between rushed words. Parents. He could see it in their posture—the need to report, to assure, to process everything that had just happened.

Robin turned his attention back to the ruins of the mall, eyes narrowing as he caught movement near one of the collapsed corridors. A soft golden glow flickered in the distance, faint through the lingering dust. Signal.

Signal was working quickly, guiding a small group of survivors toward the exits. An older man leaned against him for support, his gait unsteady. A teenage girl with blood streaked across her forehead followed close behind, one arm wrapped tightly around her torso. Another woman limped beside them, favoring her left leg. Signal moved with careful precision, leading them over uneven ground, stepping over broken support beams and crumbled tile, his visor flickering as he scanned for signs of instability.

“I’ve got them,” Signal confirmed over comms, his voice steady. “Exit’s clear—just taking it slow.”

Robin tracked his movements as Signal shifted his grip on the older man’s arm, keeping him upright as they maneuvered past the last of the debris. The girl stumbled slightly, but before she could fall, Signal caught her, his movements fluid, practiced. No wasted motion, no unnecessary words. Just action. Reassurance. Efficiency.

“All clear,” he confirmed a moment later.

Robin exhaled slowly, tension still coiled in his muscles, still running beneath his skin. Turning back, Robin watched as Elena climbed into the back of a black SUV he recognized as the one Amrita’s father drove to school every morning. The door shut with a quiet click, and through the tinted windows, he saw Elena’s silhouette, still and unmoving. The car pulled away from the curb, merging into the slow, congested stream of emergency vehicles and news vans. Robin turned, adjusting his cape as he did so. His work here wasn’t done.

He moved through the scene with practiced efficiency, weaving between exhausted first responders and officers securing the site. The fires had been doused, leaving only steaming remnants and the acrid scent of burnt plastic lingering in the cold night air. Ambulances, one by one, began pulling out, their sirens wailing as they carried the injured to Gotham General. Police had expanded the cordon, forcing reporters back, but that didn’t stop the press from shouting questions, their voices cutting through the controlled chaos.

Near the police barricades, the press had gathered in a tightly packed knot, cameras flashing, mics thrust forward, voices overlapping in a relentless barrage of questions. GCPD officers held the line, keeping them from getting too close to the smoldering ruins of the mall.

Robin didn’t stop, but he listened.

“Officer! Is this a known terrorist attack?” a reporter in a sharp grey coat called out, voice cutting through the noise.

For a moment, no one answered. Then a uniformed officer near the perimeter turned, his expression tight. “Yes,” he confirmed, voice clipped but loud enough to carry over the crowd. “We’re treating this as an act of terrorism.”

Robin’s steps slowed.

Microphones surged forward. Cameras clicked. The buzz of frantic typing and the soft chime of live news updates being sent out filled the air like static electricity.

“Can you confirm any suspects?” another reporter pressed, shoving a voice recorder closer.

The officer exhaled, squaring his shoulders. “An arrest was made earlier. The suspect is already at the precinct for questioning.”

The reporters practically vibrated with urgency, all speaking at once. “Who? Do you have a name?”

The officer didn’t hesitate. “Adel Rahmani.”

Of course.

Robin clenched his jaw, his mind already running ahead, already anticipating the storm this was going to stir.

“What evidence led to his arrest?” a woman from GNN demanded.

“He was spotted near the department store,” the officer replied. “Had a backpack. Left the area just minutes before the explosion.”

A single thread of circumstantial nonsense, twisted just enough to sound damning.

Robin strode toward the fire trucks, the tension in his muscles coiling tighter with every step. Gordon and Batman stood near the mobile command unit, deep in conversation, their faces illuminated by the harsh glow of floodlights cutting through the smoke-heavy air. Sirens wailed in the distance as ambulances pulled out, carrying the wounded to Gotham General. The acrid scent of burnt plastic, melted insulation, and scorched concrete clung to the frigid night like a second skin.

Robin didn’t bother with preamble. “Why the hell has an arrest been made?” His voice came sharp, barely restrained, slicing through the controlled chaos around them.

Gordon turned, brows knitting in immediate confusion. “What?”

Robin’s eyes narrowed. “They’re calling this a terrorist attack. The reporters are eating it up, and the GCPD’s got a suspect—Adel Rahmani. Down at the precinct already.”

Batman’s head tilted slightly, barely perceptible, but Robin didn’t need to see his face to know he was already processing. Calculating.

Gordon’s confusion hardened into something colder, something edged. “That’s the first I’m hearing of it.”

Robin’s pulse spiked. Of course it was.

Before Gordon could demand answers, an officer broke away from the perimeter, striding toward them with the stiffness of someone who knew he was about to be questioned. His uniform was smudged with soot, a streak of something dark lining his temple—ash or sweat or both. He barely spared Robin a glance, locking eyes with Gordon instead.

“Commissioner,” the officer greeted, breath still slightly winded, but his voice firm. “I was about to report in. We’ve got someone in custody.”

Gordon’s jaw clenched. “And I assume you have a damn good reason for that?”

The officer straightened, puffing his chest out slightly. “He was spotted near the department store not long before the blast. Had a backpack. Left just minutes before it happened. Seemed… threatening.”

Robin let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “His name was threatening, you mean.”

The officer’s head snapped toward him then, his mouth pressing into a thin line. “Excuse me?”

“You had nothing but a name,” Robin said, voice edged with contempt. “A foreign name and a backpack. And you think that’s enough?”

“Listen here, kid—”

“No,” Robin cut him off, the word laced with something razor-sharp. “A guy with a different skin tone than yours, a foreign name and a backpack near a department store, and suddenly he’s Gotham’s most wanted?” He shook his head, disgust curling in his gut. “And you’d know, if you had even half a brain cell to rub together, that it wasn’t an explosive device that caused the explosion.”

The officer’s face darkened. “And what the hell would you know about it?”

Robin didn’t blink. “That it wasn’t a bomb,” he said, his voice edged with quiet disdain. “It was a gas leak. The victims’ injuries confirm it—skin irritation, respiratory distress, heat flash burns localized to exposed areas. If you had even the most basic forensic knowledge, you’d know that.” His tone dipped lower, sharper. “But I suppose that would require thinking.”

The officer stepped forward again in an attempt to seem imposing, irritation bleeding into his stance. “Watch it, kid.”

“Robin.”

Batman’s voice was a cold warning in the night air. Robin didn’t look at him, but his jaw clenched, his fists curled tight at his sides.

“Step down,” Batman ordered, his voice even but firm. “Go back to the Batmobile.”

Robin’s nostrils flared slightly, but his expression remained unchanged, locked in a quiet, simmering fury. A muscle in his jaw twitched. Then, without another word, he turned and walked away, footsteps silent against the cracked pavement.

Batman didn’t enter the Batmobile right away. Robin didn’t look up when he finally did. Just kept his  jaw locked, and his gaze fixed ahead.

For a long moment, silence.

Then, without preamble, Batman said, “GCFD confirmed it.” A pause. “Gas leak. Origin point was by the fireplace displays in the furniture section.”

The words weren’t a revelation. He’d already known.

But Batman wasn’t finished.

“You let your emotions dictate your response.”

Robin’s grip on the wheel didn’t tighten, but only because it was already white-knuckled. He swallowed the immediate retort, let the words hang in the space between them.

“You escalated,” Batman continued, voice even. “Antagonized an officer when control was what was needed.”

Robin scoffed, tilting his head just enough to glance at him. “Control?” His tone was sharp, laced with disbelief. “He arrested an innocent man because it was easy. And I’m the one who lost control?”

Batman’s silence was measured. Calculated.

“Justice isn’t won by self-righteous anger,” he said finally. “You can’t fix broken systems by letting them see you break first.”

Robin’s teeth clenched, something burning just beneath his skin.

“He deserved worse,” he muttered.

Batman exhaled through his nose, gaze unreadable beneath the cowl. “And what would that have accomplished?”

Robin didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to. The engine roared as the Batmobile tore into the streets, cutting through the city swiftly.

At this hour—just shy of 2 p.m.—there weren’t many people inside the independent learning area at Gotham Academy. A few juniors were scattered around the room, hunched over textbooks or staring blankly at their screens. A couple of seniors occupied the farthest table, whispering over a shared calculus problem set. It wasn’t the newsroom, but it would have to do.

Elena sank into a chair at an empty computer station and logged in, flexing her fingers slightly before typing out her student ID. Her left arm—bound up in the damn sling—made the whole process slower than she would’ve liked. She had an article to finish for next week’s issue of the Gotham Academy Gazette, and with her laptop dead and her charger sitting uselessly at home, this was her only option.

She exhaled sharply, rolling her shoulders as the desktop booted up. First, she opened the school’s online chemistry database, pulling up the organic chemistry summary sheets and practice questions she needed to print. The mechanical whir of the printer filled the room as it spat out the pages, still warm as she collected them in a neat stack.

Stapling them, however, proved to be a challenge.

The center table—really more of a counter—held a communal stapler, hole puncher, and a few scattered fliers about study tips and managing stress. Elena set the sheets down, angling them carefully with her one free hand. But as soon as she went to staple them, the pages shifted. She gritted her teeth, readjusted, and tried again.

No luck.

A quiet huff escaped her as she gripped the stapler with more force, her frustration bubbling to the surface. The sheets kept slipping, and her attempts to staple them single-handedly were growing more aggressive by the second. She was just about ready to slam the thing against the counter when—

Elena barely had time to register the movement before a hand slipped past hers, plucking the stapler off the counter.

Click.

The sound was sharp, precise, the motion effortless.

She turned, brow furrowing, just in time to see Damian Wayne set the stapler back in its place, his own papers now neatly bound. He hadn’t even spared her a glance.

Elena stared at him, stapled sheets in hand, irritation curling in her chest. “Seriously?”

“You were taking too long.” His tone was as flat as ever, his focus already elsewhere as he gathered his things.

She scoffed. “I had it.”

Damian exhaled, unimpressed. “Did you?”

Her grip on the papers tightened. “I was handling it.”

“If that’s what you want to call it.” He straightened, adjusting his blazer. “You’re welcome.”

Elena rolled her eyes, shifting her weight. “You do realize people usually ask before just swooping in, right?”

Damian finally looked at her then, expression unreadable, green eyes cool and assessing. “Would you have said yes?”

Elena opened her mouth and paused.

…Damn it.

She huffed, turning her attention back to her papers, more annoyed at herself than at him.

A beat of silence stretched between them.

“How does one even manage to sprain their arm in the first place?”

Elena hesitated, caught off guard by the question.

Her fingers twitched against the stack of papers in her hand. She hesitated, just for a second, and then—maybe because she was tired, or maybe because she didn’t have the energy to come up with a deflection—she said, “I was at the mall last night.”

Her eyes flickered past him, landing on the TV screen mounted on the wall opposite the counter. It had been part of a school initiative last year—meant to display announcements, the date and time, weather forecasts, and whatever sanitized version of school news the administration wanted to push. But a senior had figured out a way to bypass the programmed slideshow a few months ago, and ever since, it had become a free-for-all.

Someone must have switched it to the news channel earlier. And right now, it was broadcasting footage from last night’s mall explosion.

The timestamp in the corner read 8:47 p.m.—minutes before the blast. The camera feed showed a figure in a hoodie, walking briskly past one of the storefronts, a backpack slung over their shoulder. The news chyron at the bottom of the screen was bold, urgent:

GCPD ARREST SUSPECT IN MALL EXPLOSION—TERROR CONNECTION CONFIRMED BY GCPD OFFICERS

Elena swallowed, jaw tightening as she forced herself to look away.

Damian’s gaze stayed fixed on the screen. “You were there,” he said. Not a question. A statement.

She exhaled, shifting her papers against her hip to gain better grip over them. “Yeah.”

His eyes flicked back to her. “Inside the building?”

“Yes.”

A pause. Then, “How bad?”

Elena frowned. “What?”

“The injury.” His gaze dropped briefly to her arm. “How bad was it?”

She hesitated, rolling her shoulder slightly. “I got shoved pretty hard when people started panicking. Someone slammed into me at the wrong angle—I hit the ground wrong. That’s it.”

Damian glanced back at the screen as the footage looped again, the same grainy clip of the suspect playing on repeat.

Elena scoffed under her breath. “This is such bullshit.”

Damian’s gaze flicked back to her. “Elaborate.”

She huffed, shifting her weight. “It wasn’t a terrorist attack. The GCPD put out a statement early this morning— after the damage was already done. It was a gas leak. Originated in the fireplace displays in the furniture section. Not a bomb. Not an ‘attack.’ Just old pipes and lazy maintenance.”

Damian’s expression didn’t change, but Elena could sense he was listening or else he would've brushed her off by now. He was a notoriously blunt person after all.

“The problem,” she continued, voice gaining heat, “is that no one’s going to care about that correction. Not now. The second those officers gave the press some half-baked soundbite, the damage was done.” She gestured toward the screen, where the innocent man’s—Adel’s—blurred figure flickered in the low quality footage. “The guy they arrested? Wrong place, wrong time. Nothing in his bag. No ties to anything . But you slap a foreign name on a headline, and suddenly, the racists have got their scapegoat.”

Damian tilted his head slightly, considering her. “You read the full statement.”

“Of course I did,” she shot back. “Not that it matters—half the media outlets reporting on this haven’t. Or if they have, they’ve buried it under all the fear-mongering.”

She exhaled sharply, raking a hand through her hair. “Every comment section on every post about this is filled with the same ignorant bullshit. People looking for any excuse to make this about race, about immigration, about whatever narrative gets them the most engagement. They don’t care about facts. They care about a headline that makes them feel like they already know the story before they even read the first paragraph.”

Damian said nothing, watching as Elena’s frustration simmered just beneath the surface.

Then, calmly, “You’re angry.”

She turned toward him, expression sharp. “You’re not ?”

He studied her for a moment. Then, with the faintest shift of his shoulders, he said, “You articulate it better.”

Elena blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“You don’t just recognize the problem,” he said, voice measured. “You care .”

She frowned, suspicious. “Are you… agreeing with me?”

Damian didn’t respond, but nodded imperceptibly.

Elena shook her head. “Doesn’t matter. No one’s going to listen. And it’s not just the people in the comments, it’s the publications themselves. Half-truths and inflammatory language sell better than facts . This isn’t a mistake—it’s deliberate .” She gestured vaguely at the screen, where GNN’s logo was plastered in the corner of the broadcast. “And, ugh, take three guesses as to who owns GNN.”

Damian’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Lex Luthor.”

Elena snapped her fingers. “Bingo. Billionaire media mogul Lex Luthor. The same guy who’s spent the last decade expanding his news empire under the guise of ‘nonpartisan journalism.’” She scoffed. “Please. Every word they run is calculated. Every detail they miss is intentional. And this?” She gestured at the screen. “This is the kind of coverage that gets people killed .”

A sharp throat-clearing interrupted them.

Elena turned her head, finding a junior standing awkwardly behind Damian, a thick stack of papers clutched in their hands. Their eyes flickered between the stapler and the two of them, clearly debating whether or not to say anything.

“Uh, sorry,” the student mumbled. “I just need to, um—” He gestured vaguely at the stapler.

Damian stepped aside without a word, smoothly retrieving his own papers from the counter. Elena bit back a smirk, amused by how easily their entire conversation had been derailed by something as mundane as stapling.

Before either of them could pick it back up, the bell rang, its sharp trill cutting through the room. Around them, students stirred from their seats, stretching, closing laptops, gathering papers. The low hum of conversation picked up as people shuffled toward the door.

Elena exhaled, rolling her shoulders as she adjusted the strap of her bag. She turned toward Damian. “Guess that’s our cue.”

He nodded, slipping his stapled documents into his bag with precise movements. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Gold.”

Elena watched him go, his stride as purposeful as always, before turning back to her own papers. As she gathered them up, her mind still lingered on their conversation.

Shaking the thought off, she slung her bag over her shoulder and made her way out of the independent learning area.

[urfavfakeblonde]

stiles helping ease his gf into trusting him because he knows that she has issues trusting men because of the role models she's had as men in her life

ₘₑₙ ₗᵢₖₑ yₒᵤ

Stiles Stilinski x fem!reader

warnings: anxiety disorder, awkward!reader, fluffy, sad :(

thank you for requesting love <3

My leg bounces up and down, my shoe hitting the floor quietly with a gentle pat, pat, pat. My eyes shift over to the clock, watching the hand click. A sigh of relief involuntarily comes out as I loop my backpack around my shoulder, silently, yet quickly walking out of the classroom, and into the crowded hall of chattering students. I feel a hand on my shoulder, and I flinch at the unexpected touch. Turning around, I see Stiles with a soft smile on his face. I smile back, not fully, but enough to greet him. "Hey," he says, removing his hand, shoving both in his pockets. "Hi," I reply softly, shifting my bag. "I was just about to text you," I mumble, looking to the side to watch my classmates laugh and parade out the doors. Stiles squints, as if he doesn't believe me, but opens his mouth to say something instead. "You okay?" He asks softly, moving his head down to capture my eyes in a trance. I almost forgot how to speak, my fidgeting stopping for just a moment. I swallow, hard. "Yeah, yeah I'm okay," I stutter, stepping back, rocking slowly. Silence. "You wanna come over to my house?" I mumble, looking up at him. He smiles and nods. "Sure," He replies, wrapping his arm around my shoulders, leading us out of the school. We walk slowly, the loose gravel in the parking lot crunching under our feet. "How was your day?" He asks, opening the door to the driver's side. I slide into the passenger's seat and set my backpack down by my feet. I shrug and click the seatbelt on. "It was fine, yours?" I ask softly, glancing at his hand as it turns the key to the engine. I swallow and quickly look out the window instead. "Mine was good, Scott wasn't here today though," he answers, backing the car out of the lot. I nod, observing the buildings, the trees, anything to distract myself. Stiles glances over, watching my fingers fidget for a moment before returning his attention to the road. "Did you eat today?" He asks to break the silence. I blink and turn to look at him. He knows when I'm lying anyways, so I might as well tell the truth. "A little," I whisper, picking the skin next to my chipped blue nail. I hear him sigh, but he doesn't question any further. I know he's disappointed, but I think he also knows pushing it wouldn't help. My eyes focus back on the pictures through the window, letting my thoughts take over.

Sometimes, I wonder if he'll leave me. I mean, I'm a nervous wreck, I don't eat as much as I should, I don't communicate--so why does he stay? When it's late at night, sometimes I hear my father's voice in my ear, "I'll never leave you," "I love you so much." But tears just wash away the memories, and the voice in my head tells me that he left because of me, I'm the problem. Stiles clears his throat as I look up to see the car door open, him standing above me, waiting for me to unbuckle. "Sorry," I whisper, shakily unbuckling the seatbelt. He gives me a worried smile but holds out his hand. I swallow before taking it as he grabs my bag and loops it around his shoulder. "Thanks," I say, moving some hair behind my ear. Again, my mind, no, eyes, wonder as they glance at his hand closing the door. He hums in approval, walking up to the front door. He sets the bags down in the entry way and watches me take off my shoes. I glance up at him to see that he is already looking at me, causing my body to tense up and face become flustered. "Did I do something wrong?" I ask timidly, setting down my shoes. He lets out a small laugh and rubs my arms. "I was just admiring," he says softly, moving a loose strand of hair behind my ear. I blush hard, harder than ever and look down. Yet, he tilts my chin up with his hand and forces me to look into his eyes. "You know your beautiful right?" He asks with a strict tone in his voice. He gives me a look that if I don't agree I'll regret it. So, I am left with no other option than to nod slowly. He smiles and kisses my forehead. I wrap my hands around his torso, welcoming his warmth. "You promise you'll never leave me?" I whisper, tears threatening to spill. He hums and holds me tighter. "I promise."