#Nightmare was starting to expect it at this point)

[fangdokja]

"I only tried to kill you because I love you. Why are you making this weird?"

❤︎ Synopsis. He was sent to assassinate the strongest archangel—swift, clean, no loose ends. Instead, he found a trembling, wide-eyed crybaby who sobbed uncontrollably when she accidentally stepped on a flower… and now he’s questioning if killing her or marrying her would be the greater sin.

♡ Book 4. Whispers in the Dark (WITD): Subtle Devotion, Lingering Shadows.

♡ Pairing. Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy x Esper! Angel! Fem. Reader

♡ Headcanons. Mission: Assassinate. Problem: She’s a Dumbass - Part 1

♡ Word Count. 5,769

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who has spent millennia in the shadows, serving as the Demon King’s most lethal operative. He was a ghost in the battlefield, a legend in the underworld. No job was too brutal, no target too innocent. He was the executioner of nations, the nightmare whispered among desperate prayers.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who has infiltrated kingdoms, toppled empires, and danced on the edge of war with nothing but precision and a smirk. Assassination, sabotage, psychological warfare—he was a master of them all. A being so deeply entwined in darkness that even demons feared him.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who was given his final mission—hunt down an esper archangel. Not just any archangel. You. An anomaly among Heaven’s finest. One of the strongest executioners they had, yet…

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who spent months tracking you, observing you, expecting a ruthless warrior, a divine enforcer of order and justice. What he found instead was a tiny, emotional crybaby. A woman who cried over a crushed ant on the sidewalk.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who had once brought ruin to an entire celestial legion without flinching, now watching—dumbfounded—as you knelt on the ground, fat tears rolling down your cheeks, cradling the lifeless body of an insect like it was a fallen comrade.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who followed you through city streets and holy sanctuaries, waiting for the moment you would switch, reveal the cold-blooded executioner the reports had spoken of. Instead, he found you screaming at a butterfly that landed on your shoulder.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who had tortured kings into submission and broken minds beyond repair, now watching as you performed emergency healing magic on a pigeon with a broken wing.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who thought this mission would be a challenge. Instead, he was left wondering if Heaven had made a mistake. Surely, they weren’t serious. This trembling, overgrown child—this emotional wreck—was an archangel?

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who had anticipated battle but was now stuck in the most ridiculous surveillance of his life. You were either the greatest con artist he had ever seen… or just an idiot.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who had studied countless profiles, memorized every report, and prepared himself for battle against a cold, unyielding executioner. Instead, he was now watching you collapse to your knees in the middle of the street, hands trembling, eyes wide with unshed tears.

What happened? Assassination attempt? Divine revelation? Some kind of cosmic disturbance?

No. You just watched a little kid drop their ice cream cone.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who stands on the rooftop, utterly baffled as you—an archangel, a celestial executioner—wipe your tears aggressively, approach the sobbing child, and buys him a whole new ice cream while still crying harder he is.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who watches you tear up over every single injustice in the universe, big or small. A beggar in the street? Crying. A stray dog looking hungry? Crying. Some flowers wilting in the summer heat? Crying and aggressively watering them while muttering apologies under your breath.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who starts thinking, Alright, maybe she’s just too empathetic. A weak point. That’s useful.

Then he watches you have a full-on emotional breakdown in a bookstore.

"Why?" a passing customer asks, watching you clutch a novel to your chest like it personally betrayed you.

"It's—it’s just—the main character’s so lonely," you hiccup, voice wobbly, "and the author said they’re not getting a sequel—so—so they’ll always be alone. FOREVER."

The customer backs away. The employees are scared. The cashier is scared.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who decides Alright, she’s emotionally weak, this will be easy.

✦✧✦✧

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who watched as you cradled the tiny, lifeless bug in your hands, your face contorted in absolute devastation, tears streaming down your cheeks like a busted faucet.

"I’m so sorry—!! I didn’t see you! You were so tiny! Oh no—!"

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who stared in utter disbelief as you attempted to perform HEALING MAGIC on the poor insect. A caterpillar.

"Please, please, you were just trying to be a butterfly someday—!!"

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who had tortured warlords without blinking, now watching you hyperventilate over a bug with the emotional stability of a shattered teacup.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who followed you for days, expecting—hoping—this was a one-time occurrence. It was not.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who, the very next day, saw you in the middle of a park, absolutely losing your mind over a bird with an injured leg.

"OH NO—who did this to you?! WHO WOULD HURT YOU—?!"

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who knew, for a fact, that no one had “hurt” the bird—it probably just landed wrong. But there you were, on your knees, gently wrapping its tiny leg with a glowing, ethereal light, like a medieval doctor mourning a fallen soldier.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who listened in horrified fascination as you whispered encouragement to the damn pigeon.

"You’re going to be okay, I promise—just hold on, little guy, you’re so strong, you’re so brave—!"

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who, at this point, was beginning to suspect he was being pranked by Heaven.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who, a few days later, found you sitting alone in a garden, staring at the sky with glassy eyes, tears pooling and dripping down your cheeks like some kind of tragic painting.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who actually, for a split second, thought something serious might have happened. Maybe some celestial catastrophe. Maybe an apocalyptic prophecy. Maybe—

"The sun looks so lonely today."

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who felt his soul leave his body.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who watched you dissolve into another emotional breakdown over the sun. The actual sun.

"He’s always shining for everyone, but does anyone ever ask if he’s okay? Does anyone ever tell him he’s doing a good job?!"

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who was now convinced that you were either the most compassionate being in existence or a cosmic mistake.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who, the next week, had the misfortune of witnessing yet another crisis. This time, it was over a fucking fish.

"WHY DID NO ONE TELL ME FISH CAN DROWN?! THEY LIVE IN THE WATER—HOW DOES THIS EVEN HAPPEN?!"

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who genuinely considered breaking his cover just to slap some sense into you.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who was used to angels being cold, merciless creatures, wielding divine judgment like a blade, who knew firsthand how ruthless and terrifying they were in battle—and yet. And yet. Here you were, crying into your hands because some random goldfish didn’t get enough oxygen.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who was beginning to think you were not a divine warrior but some sort of overgrown, emotionally unstable child when he caught you having a full-blown existential crisis over a dead goldfish in a pond.

"The world is cruel… Life is so fleeting… This poor soul never got to experience love…"

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who had never in his entire life questioned the nature of Heaven—until now.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who decided, after much careful observation, that he simply had to mess with you.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who was, at this moment, watching you tremble like a little kitten in a thunderstorm just because he greeted you.

"Oh, did I scare you? My apologies," he said smoothly, tilting his head with the perfect balance of charm and professionalism.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who, despite knowing how skittish you were, was not expecting you to jump like you’d been struck by lightning.

"Oh! U-Uhm! No! No, not at all, haha! I was just—uh—thinking! Very deeply! I-I do that! I think! A lot!"

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who almost choked on his own spit.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who had flawlessly assumed the guise of a wise, mature traveling angel, a divine messenger of Heaven, just to see how you would react.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who was not prepared for how much of an absolute dumbass you were.

"You seem troubled, little one," he mused, tone light, gentle. "Is something the matter?"

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who was expecting you to be skeptical, wary, cautious—maybe even silently calculating. That’s how real executioners behaved.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who, instead, watched you absolutely malfunction.

"M-Matter? Uh, no! Nope! No, I’m totally fine! Super fine! Everything’s great, haha!"

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who knew, for a fact, that nothing in your life was ever fine because you had the emotional resilience of wet tissue paper.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who, just for fun, leaned in slightly, lowering his voice.

"Are you sure? You seem... tense."

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who nearly lost his composure when your entire soul left your body.

"I—I’M NOT TENSE! THIS IS JUST—JUST HOW I STAND!"

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who could feel your distress radiating off you like heatwaves in the desert.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who, despite all logic, was deeply entertained.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who decided to test something.

"You must be busy," he said with a practiced, knowing smile. "A powerful executioner such as yourself surely has many important duties."

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who watched as you completely blanked out.

"Uhm—!! Yes!! I do!! Many—uh—important duties!! Very important! Super important!!"

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who knew you were lying because not even five minutes ago you had been feeding ducks and crying because one of them didn’t like your breadcrumbs.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who let his smirk widen ever so slightly.

"Ah, of course. You must be so fearsome on the battlefield."

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who swore he saw you twitch at that.

"Uh, haha! Yes! Fearsome! That’s—uh—that’s me!"

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who narrowed his eyes just slightly.

"And yet," he said smoothly, "you seem so... gentle."

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who had expected some flustered response, maybe more awkward stammering, but instead—

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who watched as you shut down completely.

Your whole body went rigid. Your eyes, which had been darting around in panic, lowered to the ground. Your hands, which had been fidgeting, went still.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who noticed the way you instinctively withdrew, like a turtle retreating into its shell.

"I—um. I—I try," you mumbled.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who immediately took note of the shift.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who realized that, with other people, you weren’t the same emotional wreck you were when alone.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who, for the first time, saw the difference—how you weren’t loud, or animated, or dramatic. Instead, you were reserved. Shy. Almost small.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who, in that moment, realized something incredibly important.

You had no idea he had been watching you all this time.

✦✧✦✧

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who, despite being an unholy monster with millennia of experience, is absolutely baffled by your sheer levels of dumbassery.

"Ah, little one, have you been well?"

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who watches as your entire body seizes up like a malfunctioning automaton.

"Uh—uhm—I—yes! No! Wait! Uhhh—"

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who is fascinated as you go through all five stages of grief just trying to answer a basic question.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who watches, in real time, as your brain completely blue-screens.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who decides to test the limits of your dumbassery.

"You dropped your halo," he says smoothly.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who is, in fact, staring directly at your perfectly intact halo floating above your head.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who almost chokes when you actually look down.

"OH NO—wait—huh—where—?! W-WAIT—"

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who watches you frantically pat your head like a person who just realized they lost their glasses while they were wearing them.

"OH—OH! HAHA! YOU—YOU MEANT AS A JOKE! AHAHA! AHAHAHAHA!!"

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who does not laugh because he knows damn well you actually fell for it.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who had to suppress the urge to pat your head and tell you to go sit in a corner so your brain could cool down.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who decided to change tactics.

"You seem nervous around me," he observed.

"Wh—WHAT? ME? N-NERVOUS? NO!!!" you screeched, tripping over absolutely nothing and nearly face-planting into the dirt.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who actually reached out on instinct to steady you because there was a very real chance you would break your neck from your own stupidity.

"Be careful," he murmured, steadying you with ease.

Your eyes went comically wide. Your entire body locked up. Your wings fluffed up like a startled pigeon.

"I—I—I—!!"

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who watched in morbid fascination as you immediately entered critical system failure.

"U-UH—I—I NEED TO GO—I HAVE TO—TO—UM—UH—" you flailed, pointing in a random direction.

"You don’t even know where you’re pointing," he deadpanned.

"YES I DO!!" you shouted, before turning and sprinting straight into a tree.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who just stood there, watching as you sat on the ground, holding your head, actually tearing up from the impact.

"Why does nature hate me..." you whimpered.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who had to turn away because he was genuinely about to laugh.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who has come to a very serious, very terrifying conclusion.

You weren’t just an idiot.

You were his idiot now.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who has successfully manipulated archangels before—except, apparently, you.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who finds you, yet again, in your usual spot: sitting in a sunlit patch of grass, surrounded by tiny animals, looking like an absolute dumbass.

"Oh no, little guy!! I’m so sorry—!!"

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who, out of morbid curiosity, watches as you cradle a worm in your hands, crying.

"I didn’t see you! I—I stepped too close—!! I’m so sorry—!!"

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who realizes you’re literally apologizing to a worm.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who listens as you frantically try to comfort the worm, your tiny wings drooping.

"Don’t worry, I’ll take you home! It’s okay—look, I’ll find some dirt!!"

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who has to look away for a second to compose himself because there is no way you’re a real person.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who finally steps closer and casually clears his throat.

You freeze.

Your wings fluff up.

Your grip on the worm tightens in panic.

"I—UHHH—"

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who watches in slow motion as you panic so hard you accidentally crush the worm in your hands.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who stands in stunned silence as you stare at your hands.

"—OH NOOOOOOOO—!!"

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who is now watching a supposedly infamous, deadly archangel sob over a worm murder that was entirely your fault.

"I—I DIDN’T MEAN TO—!! I’M A MONSTER—!!"

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who honestly can’t believe you’re the same person responsible for massacring entire demon battalions.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who kneels down beside you, resting his elbow on his knee, chin in his hand, as he watches you have an actual existential crisis.

"You’re taking this surprisingly hard for an executioner," he comments dryly.

"I KNOW—!!" you wail.

"…You kill things for a living."

"I KNOWWWWWWW—!!"

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who observes as you dramatically clutch your chest like you’re in a soap opera, absolutely devastated.

"He had a family, probably—!! Oh, they’ll never know what happened to him—!!"

"…He was a worm."

"He had a LIFE—!!"

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who suddenly, violently wants to laugh.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who smirks instead, tilting his head slightly.

"You’re… quite different from other archangels," he muses.

You sniffle, rubbing your eyes, entirely missing the way he’s analyzing your every reaction.

"Uhm… I guess so…?"

"You keep to yourself a lot. I never see you with the others."

You immediately shrink into yourself.

You hesitate.

Then—quickly, too quickly—"I just like animals more!"

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who definitely caught that.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who notices that, for all your loud, emotional outbursts, you immediately close off when it comes to actual emotional vulnerability.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who sees, firsthand, how you can cry for a worm, but when asked about yourself, you physically retreat.

"…That so?" he hums, watching as you nod, forcing an innocent little smile.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who suddenly has the urge to rip apart whatever or whoever made you this way.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who watches as you return to your animals, playing it off like nothing happened.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who realizes—for all your emotions, for all your softness—you’re still untouchable.

And for the first time in a long time,

He wants to break something.

✦✧✦✧

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who is currently sitting in a field, surrounded by rabbits, staring at you.

"So," he says casually, leaning back on his elbows. "You’re really not gonna let me in, huh?"

You freeze.

Your hands are trembling as you feed a baby squirrel. You’re clearly nervous.

And yet, somehow, somehow, you still keep him at arm’s length.

You. A literal dumbass.

"I—um." You fidget, eyes darting. "Wh—What do you mean—??"

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who has pulled every psychological trick in the book, and you still won’t let him get close.

You don’t treat him like an enemy. You don’t suspect him. You trust him.

And yet, you hold back.

"It’s just interesting," he drawls, watching your every microexpression. "You’re gullible. An open book. But somehow, I get the feeling you’re still keeping secrets from me."

You flinch.

He notices.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who has literally not once failed at worming his way into someone’s head.

Except you.

"I-I don’t know what you mean," you stammer, avoiding his gaze, ears turning red.

You’re lying.

You’re a terrible liar.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who is watching the most naive, clueless, pure-hearted idiot outplay him without even realizing it.

And it is infuriating.

"You trust me, don’t you?" He tilts his head. "We’re friends, aren’t we?"

You nod quickly.

"Of course!!"

"Then why do I feel like you don’t actually trust me?"

You panic.

"I—I do!!" you insist, flapping your hands like an idiot. "I promise!!"

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who watches as you try so hard to sound convincing, but your whole body is screaming RUN.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who has manipulated angels into betraying their own and demons into tearing themselves apart—who is currently being held at emotional gunpoint by the single dumbest creature he has ever met.

And he hates it.

He should have had you wrapped around his finger by now.

But no.

No.

Somehow, despite your gullibility, despite your literal childlike stupidity, you still won’t let him past the gate.

He’s been playing this game for centuries.

And you—a stammering, nervous wreck of an angel—are winning.

And the worst part?

You don’t even realize it.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who has tried everything.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who has played every card.

Friendship? That was his first strategy. He’s patient. Gentle. Maybe you’re just naturally slow to warm up.

Courting? Not that he ever needed to court before—usually, people just fall into his hands like dumb birds, but fine. Flowers. Chivalry. All that romance novel bullshit.

Casual intimacy? A guiding hand on the small of your back. A lingering gaze. Nothing. You blink at him like a confused rat.

Damsel-in-distress bait? He faked getting wounded, and you CRIED. Not because you cared about him, but because, “Oh no!! I don’t know how to help!! I—oh!!” then proceeded to panic and pray over him like a lunatic.

Making you jealous? HAH. Good luck. He might as well have been flirting with a lamp post.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who has used every manipulation tactic known to man, demon, and celestial alike.

And nothing.

You’re still keeping him at arm’s length.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy tried being friendly. He’s tried being charming. He’s tried mirroring your emotions, slipping into your comfort zone, weaving himself into your world like an invisible thread.

He’s tried being patient.

He’s tried being persistent.

He’s tried being so damn likable that even an angel as dumb and naive as you should have fallen for it by now.

You—who trusts too easily. You—who gets emotionally attached to anything that breathes.

And still, you won’t let him in.

It’s maddening.

It’s infuriating.

It’s—

"—huh?"

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy sees you.

And for the first time in centuries, something twists in his chest like a knife.

You're with someone.

A human.

A priest.

Some lowly, weak, insignificant little human priest.

And you—you, the dumbass crybaby archangel who can’t even hold a normal conversation without looking like you're about to malfunction—are blushing.

Blushing.

You’re fidgeting.

You’re stammering.

You’re looking away, your hands twitching like you don’t know what to do with them.

Like some nervous, inexperienced girl—

Like some lovesick little—

His entire body locks up.

For the first time, ♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy feels something cold crawl down his spine.

It’s not rage.

It’s not jealousy.

It’s something worse.

"…What?"

He doesn’t reveal himself.

He doesn’t move.

He watches.

And his world tilts.

✦✧✦✧

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who never thought he'd hesitate. Not once in his long, blood-soaked life.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who knows that patience is the sharpest knife. And he has been so patient with you.

So why—why now—does he hesitate?

You’re with him. That human priest.

You’re laughing softly. Smiling. You’re speaking in a voice he’s never heard before—quiet, gentle, uncertain. Your hands are fidgeting, your eyes darting down, nervous, awkward. The same way you are with him, but… different. Softer.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy has never seen you like this.

You—who cry over dead bugs, who sob over spilled milk, who trip over your own feet and wail like the sky is falling.

You—who hide your hands when they shake, who clasp them in your lap and bite your lip and tremble when you think no one is looking.

You—who have never let your guard down around him.

But you’re doing it now.

Voluntarily.

With him.

Not with him.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy doesn’t move. Doesn’t interrupt. Doesn't step forward and tease you, doesn’t mock you for being such a damn fool, doesn’t rip that moment apart just to see you squawk and flail and cry about it later.

Because for the first time, ♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy is feeling something he doesn’t want to analyze.

And for the first time in his existence, he doesn’t pull the trigger when the shot is perfect.

✦✧✦✧

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who always thought he understood you better than anyone.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who has seen you at your absolute worst—crying, sniffling, wailing over nonsense like a broken teacup, tripping over absolutely nothing, and somehow managing to be the most powerful archangel while having the IQ of a concussed pigeon.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who knows exactly how to make you flustered, exactly how to get under your skin, exactly how to make you sputter and cry and stomp your feet in frustration like some bratty little dove.

So why—why, in all the hells and heavens—do you look like that right now?

You’re sitting there, staring off into space, with that blank, dumbass look on your face, the one he normally loves because it means you’re about to say something so outrageously stupid that it takes him hours to recover from laughing.

But now—now it’s different.

You’re airheaded, but… soft. Dreamy. Like you’re lost in some private little world.

Like you’re thinking about someone.

Like you’re thinking about him.

And not him.

His jaw clenches.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who doesn’t visit you today. Doesn’t tease you, doesn’t push you, doesn’t press himself into your space just to watch you squirm.

He watches instead.

Watches the way your fingers fidget, playing with the hem of your sleeve.

Watches the way your lips twitch into a faint, dopey little smile.

Watches the way you look down, lost in thought, looking just a little too damn pretty.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who feels something dark and wrong coil in his gut.

Something tight. Something ugly. Something that makes his fingers twitch, that makes his vision blur, that makes his instincts scream at him to move, move, move.

For the first time, he doesn’t feel like teasing you.

For the first time, he doesn’t feel like playing.

Because for the first time, he wants to rip something apart.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who never considered himself an emotional man.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who could lie, deceive, infiltrate, kill, and walk away without a single flicker of regret.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who always thought you were a game. A pretty little idiot, a skittish dove, something fragile to toy with, to break, to keep.

So why did he feel this when he saw you looking at someone else like that?

When he saw you sitting there, hands folded, eyes soft, looking at a mortal like he was the sun and you were some pathetic flower desperate for warmth?

Something in his mind snapped.

Because he knows you.

Knows that you’re not even close with your own kind.

Knows that you keep everyone at a distance, keep him at a distance.

And yet, this man—this human—was enough for you to let your guard down?

No.

No, that wouldn’t do.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who lets you have your moment. Lets you smile, lets you blush, lets you bask in the illusion of safety.

Because it makes the punishment so much sweeter.

You freeze.

You go utterly still.

The morning dew clings to the leaves, the usual creatures that keep you company have gone silent, and the air feels wrong.

Your usual quiet sanctuary, the place where you retreat to, where you nurse wounded animals and rest your weary little heart, has been defiled.

By him.

The body is still warm.

Still fresh.

A human man, kind eyes forever frozen in horror, his blood staining the soft grass at your feet.

His throat slit, precise and surgical.

No mess, no evidence of struggle, no lingering aura of a fight.

Because there wasn’t one.

Because he didn’t stand a chance.

And beside the corpse, placed deliberately, something just for you—

A single white feather.

Your own.

Plucked straight from your wing.

You don’t have to turn around to know who’s watching you.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who’s always watching you.

And for the first time, he doesn’t tease.

Doesn’t smirk.

Doesn’t laugh.

Just stares, dark eyes fixed on you from the shadows, waiting for your reaction.

Waiting to see if you finally understand.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who has seen a lot of things in his lifetime. Who has danced with death more times than he can count, slipped into places he shouldn’t be, and walked out without a single scratch.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who thought he knew you.

The blubbering idiot. The naïve, nervous little thing that could barely hold eye contact with him. The jittery archangel who cried at the sight of a scraped knee and spoke like a lost child.

So why…

Why was he bleeding?

The knife had nearly gone through his throat.

Nearly.

Had he been just a second slower, had his instincts been just a fraction duller, he would’ve been dead.

And it wasn’t just a lucky hit.

That was an execution. A professional one.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who immediately distances himself, eyes flickering with something sharp, something excited, something deadly. His pulse pounds in his ears, not from fear—but from the thrill.

He watches as you stand there, emotionless, cold, your usual trembling gone, your meekness stripped away like it never existed.

Then you speak.

Clear. Calculated. Ruthless.

Reciting the laws of Heaven like a well-trained executioner, syllables precise and absolute, each word carrying the weight of divine judgment.

You do not raise your voice.

You do not hesitate.

You do not flinch.

"Article 7, Section 12 of the Divine Mandates: Any entity that slaughters an innocent in sanctified ground shall be purged immediately. No trial. No exceptions."

The blade glints in the light as you move again—silent. Merciless.

And he—he—for the first time in a long, long while—

Is caught off guard.

✦✧✦✧

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who always thought your trembling, nervous hands were a sign of weakness. Who thought your skittish glances and teary eyes were just proof that you were a fragile little thing—one that needed his protection.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who is now locked in combat with you, and there is nothing weak about you.

Not the way you move—silent, ruthless, every strike calculated, every parry a death sentence in disguise. Not the way you react—no emotion, no hesitation, just pure, unrelenting precision.

Not the way you don’t mourn the body he left for you.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who sees no grief in your expression, no sadness, not even anger.

Just a switch.

Cold. Unfeeling.

Mechanical in its execution.

This is the one they call Judge Executioner.

He tests a counterattack—quick, a feint to throw you off.

You don’t fall for it. You don’t fall for anything.

You only strike.

And it’s him or you.

For the first time, he knows—

This isn’t a hunt.

This is a trial.

And he is the one being judged.

✦✧✦✧

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who has always loved the sound of his own voice, especially when it’s pissing someone off.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who grins through the taste of iron in his mouth, laughing as he dodges the edge of your blade by a hair.

“Damn, sweetheart. Didn’t know you liked it rough.”

No response.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who tries again, cocky and teasing, side-stepping your next attack with ease.

“What? No cute little stutters today? Not even a—oof, okay, ow, that was close, fuck—babe?”

Still nothing.

No reaction. No irritation. No nothing.

Not even when he calls you babe.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who, for the first time, realizes he’s not fighting you.

He’s fighting it.

The machine. The executioner. The law given form.

Not the nervous wreck who used to flinch when he got too close. Not the bumbling idiot who tripped over their own feet when trying to run away from him.

This? This thing in front of him?

It doesn’t care.

And worse—

It doesn’t listen.

✦✧✦✧

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who dodges another one of your brutal strikes, grinning through the burn of a fresh cut on his cheek.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who huffs out a laugh, flicking the blood off his blade as he dances just out of reach.

“Damn, sweetheart. You always this rough with your best friends?”

No reaction.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who twirls his dagger between his fingers, watching for even the slightest shift in your expression.

“Cold. Really cold.” He clicks his tongue, tilting his head with a smirk. “Kinda hot, though. You wanna roleplay or somethin’? You know, ‘cause if you wanted to—"

You don’t even hesitate, your next attack slicing through the air like a guillotine.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who laughs, who wheezes as he barely avoids having his head lobbed off.

“Oh, c’mon, you’re breaking my heart here.”

He ducks. You aim higher. He feints. You don’t fall for it.

“Not even a little blush? No shaky hands? Nothing?”

Still. Nothing.

Not even a flicker of recognition in your eyes.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who feels something ugly coil in his stomach at that.

Oh.

Oh, he really doesn’t like this.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who exhales sharply, a flicker of amusement curling his lips even as his own wounds ooze fresh blood.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who tilts his head, eyes gleaming with amusement as you spit blood—dark, viscous, tainted—onto the ground between you.

"Finally kicked in, huh? Thought you'd last a little longer."

Odorless poison from the corpse of that deceased bitch.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who watches you stagger but stay upright, eyes narrowed, face pale, but still—still—you don’t retreat.

“Damn,” he chuckles, rolling his shoulders despite the pain. “Guess I really outdid myself with that one, huh?”

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who tilts his head, gaze flicking to the darkened blood you just spat onto the ground, mixing with the carnage beneath your feet.

“Not gonna lie, sweetheart,” he hums, voice almost gentle as he wipes his own bloody lips, “you usually bounce back from worse. But me? I tailor-made that poison just for you. Your kind. Angelic regeneration ain’t worth shit if the poison was built to devour it.”

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who expects hesitation, maybe a flash of fear in those cold, calculating eyes of yours.

But you don’t hesitate. You don’t even flinch.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who watches, fascinated, as you raise your blade again, steady despite the way your body sways.

“...Oh?”

For the first time, he takes a step back.

Not out of fear.

But because he’s starting to realize—

Even poisoned. Even wounded. Even with death crawling up your throat—

You aren’t backing down.

You won’t back down.

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who whistles low, both impressed and so, so entertained.

“Man, you really don’t know when to quit, do you?”

♡ Yandere! Retired! Demon! Spy who grins through the blood in his teeth as you raise your weapon again, not even hesitating.

Oh.

Oh, you’re still going to try to kill him.

Even now.

Even dying.

And fuck—he thinks he might just love you for that.

♡ A/N #1 (Feb 10). Me thinking Sakamoto Days is an apocalypse action series based on the manga covers. It’s not. It’s so freaking legit. Basically ‘The Way Of The Househusband’ remastered. “Can I copy your homework?” “Ok, but don’t make it obvious.” I love both series. Also can’t take his younger self seriously, he looks like that one guy from Tokyo Revengers. But seriously, I watched the anime, so legit wahahhahahahaha. So I knew I had to make a story inspired by it. Yes, I’m recommending it. Watched it in Netflix. A mix of The Way Of The Househusband, Terminator, and One Punch Man. I love it. Also favorite manga is One Punch Man. The humility of MC and satirical plot of OPM are my favorite parts of it. Also... I was supposed to make this into a kinder yandere until I accidentally turned him into basically Tartaglia.

♡ A/N #2 (Mar 24). Yes, I'm resurrecting my old cursed drafts. I still cringe but it's better than letting it sit in the backburner. No. I will not edit this anymore. Unfortunately, I get terribly bored pretty easily.

If you want to be added or removed from the tag list, just comment on the MASTERLIST of Whispers in the Dark (WITD): Subtle Devotion, Lingering Shadows. Thank you.

General TAG LIST of “Whispers In The Dark”: @keisocool , @elvabeth , @elloredef , @mjsjshhd , @lem-hhn , @yuki-istired , @lilyalone , @starryperson , @yandreams-storageblog , @tiffyisme3760 , @songbirdgardensworld , @yune1337 , @mocalocha , @astreaaaaaa6 , @poopooindamouf , @yandereaficionado , @esther-kpopstan , @iris-arcadia , @hopingtocleaemedschool , @doncellaescarlata , @futuristicxie

❤︎ Fang Dokja's Books.

♡ For Reader-Inserts. I only write Male Yandere x Female (Fem.) Reader (heterosexual couple). No LGBTQ+:

♡ Book 1. A Heart Devoured (AHD): A Dark Yandere Anthology

♡ Book 2. Forbidden Fruits (FF): Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires.

♡ Book 3. World Ablaze (WA) : For You, I'd Burn the World.

♡ Book 4 [you are here]. Whispers in the Dark (WITD): Subtle Devotion, Lingering Shadows.

♡ Book 5. Ink & Insight (I&I): From Dead Dove to Daydreams.

♡ Library MASTERPOST 1. The Librarian’s Ledger: A Map to The Library of Forbidden Texts.

♡ Notice #1. Not all stories are included in the masterpost due to Tumblr’s link limitations. However, most long-form stories can be found here. If you're searching for a specific yandere or theme, this guide will help you navigate The Library of Forbidden Texts. Proceed with caution

♡ Book 6. The Red Ledger (TRL): Stained in Lust, Written in Blood.

♡ Notice #2. This masterlist is strictly for non-con smut and serves as an exercise in refining erotic horror writing. Comments that reduce my work to mere sexual gratification, thirst, or casual simping will not be tolerated. If your response is primarily thirst-driven, keep it to yourself—repeated violations may result in blocking. Read the RULES before engaging. The tag list is reserved for followers I trust to respect my boundaries; being included is a privilege, not a right. You may request to be added, but I will decide based on trust and adherence to my guidelines. I also reserve the right to remove anyone at any time if their engagement becomes inappropriate.

♡ Book 7. Corpus Delicti (CD): Donum Mortis.

[coco-loco-nut]

happiness

pairing: driver x formula one

summary: at every point in a racers career, they have to retire. you believe there will be happiness after your career. (short)

masterlist requests open

——————————

“Breaking news of the day is that Y/n L/n is retiring at the end of the season, following a 17 year career,” you turn the hotel television off as you prepare to head to the circuit. Your body aches in places you didn’t know existed, a curse of age and the demanding career you’ve had.

When asked to renew your contract, you couldn’t put your pen to the paper. The thought of racing another season sent a sense of dread through you.

You walk through the lobby, the television playing the same channel as was on in your room.

“You know, she was never the same after that crash in Singapore,” someone says, their back turned to you. It’s easy for them to talk, they weren’t the ones walking away bleeding and bruised, loving the love and passion for the sport you fought so hard to compete in.

“What will she even do after? No one will want a midfield driver,” the persons friend asks. You don’t have an answer to the first part, but it takes every ounce of restraint in you to not defend your honor.

“She’s kept her seat for seventeen years and won a few races with that team. She’ll be remembered for generations. Hopefully for everything before that crash,” the first person responds. You exit the hotel and get into your rental car, the radio station talking about the same story.

There’s a twinge of irritation in you. You had set aside time to discuss the decision with your teammate and the girl you’ve been mentoring. Someone leaked your departure, not granting the dignity of announcing it yourself.

Whispers and glances follow you as you walk into the paddock, head up. You find your teammate waiting for you with two coffees and a torn expression.

“Let’s talk,” you pat his shoulder, leading him to your drivers room.

“Why?” his voice cracks, eyes unable to meet yours.

“Everyone’s career has to end at some point, and it’s come time for mine. Racers have a shelf life at this level, we can’t compete here forever,” you say gently. “After my crash I started hesitating, weighing risks, and thinking twice before making a risky move. And when it came time to renew my contract, well, I couldn’t do it. I have to leave on my own terms,” you rest a hand on his shoulder. So young, you’re the only teammate he’s known at this level.

“What am I going to do without you?” he hides the tears in his eyes, you didn’t expect it to be this hard for him.

“I think you’ll like your new teammate, she’ll be a younger me who will look up to you like you did to me. Taking my spot next to you,” you lean back against the wall.

“But what about you? What will you do next?” his sad eyes meet yours.

“There will be happiness after this. I haven’t met the new me yet, but I can’t wait to,” you sound so sure.

“You were happy here too,” he argues feebly, not ready for change.

“Both things can be true. But I can’t wake up every night having the nightmare where I relieve my crash but it’s at wherever we are racing this week instead. I gave this sport my best years, it’s time to move on,” you reaffirm your stance, your decision, your peace.

“I guess I’m just going to miss you,” in a moment of vulnerability, he wraps his arms around you. Hugs aren’t your normal, both of you aren’t a fan of them unless it’s after a win with your team.

“I’ll be around, and this doesn’t mean you can’t reach out for help,” your reassurance works. You see acceptance in his face, knowing there is no way for you to stay. It’s unusual for there to be such a bond between drivers, you are essentially his older sister at this point, a true team.

“I should go. I’m glad that I can call you my teammate and my sister,” he stays, exiting your room. Silently you sit down, taking a moment to compose yourself before heading to the F2 paddock.

“Y/n, the news,” Leah greets you worriedly. She knew, but only because you got her the seat.

“It’s not how I wanted people to find out, but I’m glad you will get the chance to shine,” you pat her shoulder. You fought tooth and nail for her to be your successor. Being her manager and mentor, you couldn’t waste your self-made opportunity.

“I owe everything to you. You inspired me to race, showed women can win a race, can have long careers,” she hugs you. Hopefully your last hug of the day. You found Leah while checking out a karting championship, she finished midfield, but the potential was there. From that moment you offered mentorship, an opportunity for another girl to make her mark on the sport.

“It was my honor,” you smile affectionately.

“I promise I’ll live up to your legacy,”

“If three wins is a legacy, then I hope you blow mine out of the water,” you chuckle. “Just remember that it isn’t all glamorous. There’s bumps, curses, bruises, things that make you cry, but there are also highs that make it seem worth it,” you tell her.

“Are you happy with your decision?”

“I believe I will be,” you say, “Look, I can’t make pain and nightmares go away by making the sport the villain in all of this. I gave it my best, and it’s time to leave it all behind. There’s happiness everywhere, including wherever I end up,” you explain.

“I’ll be the new you, taking every lesson and being the best driver on the grid,” Leah stands taller, determined.

“You will. Now let’s look over your data and see where you can improve this weekend before I have my media duties,” you change the subject.

As expected, your media day is filled with the same questions. You answer them the same way until the last one.

“The sport has been changed for the better because of you, divers have said that you bring an infectious happiness to the paddock and they are said it will be gone. Anything to say to your gridmates?” It fills you with warmth, to know you are loved.

“There will be happiness after me, and there was happiness because of me. Both can be true, but for now I’m looking forward to that glorious sunrise of retirement. I’ve spent a lot of time in this sport, it’s time that I move on and let a young breathe new life into the sport and the grid,” you reply sincerely.

“Well, I’m happy for you, and congratulations on your career,” the reporter says, the first to actually congratulate you. After thanking him you disappear into your teams motorhome.

It’s hard to break up with something you love, even when things went sour. You love the sport so much, but it’s your time. Some nights you find yourself talking to it like the sport was a person. Picking at your polo hem, you do the same thing.

“We both hurt each other, but I forgive you for all the pain you gave me,” you whisper. So many lessons the sport taught you was pointed to where it would hurt the deepest. Crashes, disqualifications, not knowing if your seat was secure, it was like fighting a war sometimes.

The season carries it always does, soon your retirement is old news and there’s some new headline that captured the journalists attention. You get one last podium, one final great overtake, and your career ends quietly with a P10.

As you arrive to the prize giving ceremony, your overtake somehow winning an award, you feel at peace. Being able to step away you see clearly, see how you made the right decision.

“What’s next?” you are asked multiple times.

“Rest,” you reply, happy to fade away. And that’s what you do. No watching races, no public appearances, just you and your home in the countryside. No one sees you for years other than those close to you, and they all say the same thing- you are happy and you have no plans of returning to racing. You still do your job as a manager, but beyond that you focus on yourself and finding new passions.

“Will you ever come to a race again?” Leah asks a few years into her career, sitting on your porch overlooking the rolling hills.

“Maybe one day. For now, I’m going to let you shine,” she’s been compared to you her whole career and now she’s finally making a name for herself. She’s already won more than you, and you couldn’t be prouder.

“Whenever you’re ready, we will be ready to welcome you back,” she says, looking out over the countryside. In the moment she can understand why you left, why you needed to step away. You’ve never seemed so relaxed than you do now. As she gets up to leave, you stop her.

“Keep making me proud. Build your own legacy. Don’t just be the new me,”

[godricgryffinsnore]

I HAVE ANOTHER REQUEST FOR YOUUUU IF YOU FEEL SO INCLINED 🥰

i’m imagining bestfriend!remus x reader paired together in potions brewing amortentia. and reader is internally like, oh that’s funny it kinda smells like him. omg wait no it REALLY smells like him. and she has this whole silent epiphany that it’s always been remus

and remus is standing right there, maybe having the same realization in his own mind

up to you if you wanna write a confession scene too!! i’ll devour anything you post 🩷🩷

It's Always Been You ♡ : A Remus Lupin Fan Fiction.

pairing : Remus Lupin x bestfriend!reader

summary : A slow-burn, best-friends-to-lovers tale where a simple potions class reveals long-buried feelings, leaving two hearts fumbling through confusion, warmth, and the undeniable pull of something that’s always been there.

warnings : Extreme fluff, Best friends-to-lovers tension, soft, tender confession, shy, vulnerable Remus. Please let me know if I missed any.

author's note : English is not my first language, so please forgive me for any grammatical errors or spelling errors. Re-blogging is completely fine with me, but please don't copy my work. I love you all. Enjoy <3.

Word Count : 2k

main master list <3

della's note : I think I got a little carried away while writing, cause this request really made me imagine the soft banter and shy Remus things. I loved writing for this, you know? Again, I really hope this reaches your expectations, Sunny. You are an angel. Thank you for sending me this request, beautiful. @sunflowersonatas

banner : @anitalenia and @roseschoices

The dungeon is heavy with steam and candlelight, the golden glow smearing over the stone walls in syrupy ribbons. The cauldrons bubble lazily, swirling with pale lilac and silver, exhaling slow plumes of fragrant steam. The faint clatter of glass and mortar hums in the background, but you barely hear it over the dull roar in your ears.

Because your potion smells like Remus. And it’s really starting to freak you out.

At first, it’s nothing more than a brush of familiarity—a vague scent clinging faintly to the rising mist. Something warm and faintly sweet. Familiar, but not immediately recognizable.

You lean over the cauldron slightly, inhaling again.

And this time, it hits you square in the chest.

Wool scarves and firewood. The faint trace of chocolate he always carries in his pocket. The sharp, smoky sweetness of clove lingering on his cardigan. The paper-and-ink scent of the library corner he always claims.

Oh. Oh, Merlin. You stir the cauldron again, blinking rapidly.

Your fingers tighten around the wooden spoon. No. No, no, no.

Because surely this is a coincidence. A fluke. Surely amortentia isn’t sitting here, mocking you with the exact scent of your best friend. The boy you’ve known since you were practically children. The one whose worn-out jumpers you’ve stolen without thinking twice. The one whose voice is stitched into the fabric of your every memory.

You glance at him, pulse stuttering violently. And then you see it.

The faint crease between his brows. The subtle parting of his lips. The way his hands have completely stilled around the mortar. His knuckles flex once, then twice, gripping the stone edge a little too tightly.

Oh, Merlin. He smells you too.

His eyes are wide, a little frantic, his jaw slackened with dawning realization. His breath leaves him in a faint, uneven exhale, eyes flickering uncertainly between you and the cauldron.

Neither of you move.

You are absolutely going to throw up.

Your heart slams so violently against your ribs you’re almost certain the entire classroom can hear it. You stare at him, mortified, blinking like you might somehow wake yourself from this slow-motion nightmare.

Remus stares back.

And then— Because the universe is cruel and spiteful— Your professor’s voice cuts through the haze.

“Lovely work, you two,” Slughorn beams fondly, leaning over your cauldron. “Such a perfect shade of pearl—textbook, really. Five points to Gryffindor and Ravenclaw. Keep it up.”

He wanders off without another word, and you and Remus remain exactly as you are: paralyzed, stiff as corpses, faces slightly flushed, and looking very much like you’ve both been slapped with a Beater’s bat.

You exhale sharply, finally breaking the stare, trying to focus on your hands.

Which is, apparently, the exact moment Sirius Black and James Potter decide to materialize at your table.

Sirius appears first, leaning his entire weight over Remus’s shoulder, nearly sending him face-first into the cauldron. “Fancy that,” he drawls, dramatically squinting into the shimmering steam. “If my nose isn’t mistaken—which, let’s be honest, it never is—this rather smells like the entire essence of Lupin himself.”

Remus shoots him a look of absolute, bone-deep betrayal.

James, not to be outdone, slides in beside you, draping an arm over your shoulder like he’s known you for a decade longer than he actually has. “Fascinating,” he muses, inhaling deeply with exaggerated theatrics. “I dunno, Pads, but I’m getting a whiff of something quite reminiscent of our Moony. Could be my imagination. But—” he inhales again, obnoxiously loud, “—nope. Definitely smells like our dear Remus. Weird.”

You gape at him, scandalized. “Potter.”

“Moony,” Sirius grins, leaning heavily into Remus, who is now pale and glaring daggers into the middle distance, clearly rethinking every life choice that led him to this moment. “You wouldn’t happen to have been brewing a love potion with your favorite person in the entire world, would you? Surely not.”

James makes a mock gasp, gripping your shoulder with faux devastation. “Merlin’s beard. Do you think—? No. No, they wouldn’t. They couldn’t.” He shakes his head, eyes wide. “There’s simply no way that the two of you have been pining like lovesick, moronic sheep for years, only to have this very public, very embarrassing epiphany during a school-sanctioned activity. Right?”

You want the ground to open up and swallow you whole.

You shove James off your shoulder, your face practically molten. “Get out.”

“Now, now.” Sirius raises both hands, grinning wolfishly. “I’m just saying—this is awfully convenient. Almost like it’s been... planned.” His grin widens, sharp and dangerous, eyes glinting. “Planned, James.”

You blink. Remus blinks.

And then it hits you.

“Oh, you didn’t,” Remus says flatly, voice low with warning.

James and Sirius exchange a slow, self-satisfied look. “Oh, we did,” James confirms.

You stare at them, blinking dumbly. “You—you had a bet?”

Sirius clutches his chest dramatically, grinning like a madman. “Oh, darling, not just a bet. The bet.” He levels you both with a self-satisfied smirk. “Fifty galleons. That’s how long we’ve been watching you two idiots make heart-eyes at each other from across the common room.”

Remus lets out a soft, strangled noise of betrayal. “Fifty?”

James shrugs, far too smug. “To be fair, Peter thought it would happen last Christmas, so he’s out.”

“Unbelievable,” you mutter, burying your face in your hands.

Sirius claps Remus on the back with far too much force, nearly sending him into you. “Cheer up, Moony. You finally got the girl. And you won us fifty galleons.”

“Fifty galleons I fully intend to spend on chocolate,” James adds, glancing at Remus with mock pity. “Sorry, mate. You were the last to know.”

Remus mutters something incoherent beneath his breath and promptly drops his forehead onto your shoulder, grumbling softly into the fabric of your robe.

And you—because you love him, because you always have—simply grin into his hair, fingers softly threading through it, quietly grateful that, for once, they were right.

── .✦

The dungeon is still thick with steam and the faint, honeyed glow of candlelight when Sirius and James finally make their grand exit, cackling like lunatics and loudly debating which Honeydukes chocolate is worthy of their newly won fifty galleons.

They leave the two of you behind—flushed, mortified, and still reeling.

For a long moment, neither of you speak. The dungeon hums faintly around you—the bubbling of forgotten cauldrons, the distant scrape of chairs, the murmur of students packing up their things. It all feels muffled somehow—far away and unimportant.

Because he’s still holding your hand. And you’re still holding his.

His fingers are warm and slightly calloused, trembling faintly where they’re laced between yours. You feel his thumb—slow, barely perceptible—brush ever so lightly along the inside of your wrist.

And you know he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

You glance at him cautiously. His eyes are fixed somewhere on the table, pointedly not looking at you. His face is flushed, faint pink crawling steadily over his cheekbones, dusting the tips of his ears. His throat works around a faint swallow.

You exhale softly, your voice barely above a murmur. “Remus.”

His eyes snap up at the sound of his name. And oh.

The moment your gaze meets his, something in your chest caves violently.

Because his eyes—those soft, golden eyes—are wide and unguarded, darkened slightly with something tender and unfamiliar, something almost fragile. His lashes flutter slightly, gaze flickering between your lips and your eyes like he’s already memorizing the distance.

He looks at you like you’ve hung the stars in the sky.

And suddenly, you don’t think you can breathe properly.

His lips part slightly, but he says nothing at first—his throat bobbing with an uneven swallow. When he speaks, his voice is low and unsteady, a little breathless, as though he’s only just found it.

“I, um…” He clears his throat softly, but it doesn’t help. His voice is still rough, still trembling faintly. His eyes flicker to where your hands are still laced, then back to your face, and he lets out a weak, breathless laugh. “I—I’m, um. Not very good at this, you know.”

You watch him—his eyes so unsure, so vulnerable—as though he’s bracing for you to step back. As though he’s already preparing himself for the possibility that you might let go.

You tighten your grip instead.

His lips part slightly at the gesture, eyes flashing briefly with something startled—something helpless and adoring. His breath catches.

And then, in a voice so soft and hesitant you almost miss it, he murmurs, “But it’s always been you.”

Your breath hitches.

His eyes flicker downward, his hand tightening faintly around yours like he’s afraid you might slip through his fingers. His voice is barely a breath.

“I—I didn’t even know when it started.” He lets out a faint, shaky laugh—wet and self-conscious. “Maybe it was the first time you fell asleep on my shoulder in the library. Or—or when you hexed that Slytherin who called me a monster in third year.” His lips twitch faintly, voice softening. “Or maybe it was the time you made me that ridiculous scarf for Christmas—the one with the crooked stitches that you insisted was ‘fashionably uneven.’”

You let out a breathless laugh, your eyes burning with warmth.

His fingers tighten faintly around yours, trembling slightly. His eyes—soft and uncertain and so very full—lift slowly to yours, his voice dropping to nothing more than a whisper.

“But I know now.” His throat works faintly, voice hoarse. “I know because—because it hurts to look at you sometimes. Like—like it’s too much. Like you’re sunlight and I can’t stop staring, even when it burns.”

Your chest constricts violently.

His voice shakes slightly when he exhales. “And I—I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to lose you. You’re my best friend.” His lips twitch faintly, but the smile is weak—sad around the edges. “And I was terrified. Terrified that if you knew—if you ever knew—it would ruin everything.”

He exhales shakily, voice so soft it’s almost pleading. “But I can’t—” His breath catches. “I can’t not say it anymore.”

Your lips part slightly, your breath stalling, but he keeps going—because he has to—because if he doesn’t get it out now, he’s afraid he never will.

“I love you,” he whispers, voice breaking slightly on the words, raw and breathless. His eyes squeeze shut for half a second before fluttering open again—vulnerable and wide, searching yours. “I love you. I—I think I’ve loved you forever.”

You stare at him—his wide, trembling eyes, the faint flush blooming high on his cheekbones, the subtle, terrified way his fingers tighten around yours—and you wonder how you ever thought he was anything less than devastating.

Your breath catches violently in your throat. And then, you kiss him.

You lean forward suddenly—without thinking, without breathing—and press your lips to his, desperate and unsteady and so terribly sure.

He makes a faint, startled sound against your mouth—a sharp inhale, almost a gasp—but then he’s kissing you back with everything he has, hands coming up to cradle your face, trembling and reverent.

His lips are warm and gentle, tasting faintly of chocolate, moving against yours like he’s afraid to break you. You feel his hand trembling faintly against your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin with unbearable gentleness.

And when you finally break apart, you’re both breathless—foreheads pressed together, chests heaving faintly.

You blink at him, eyes glassy with warmth. “You’re such an idiot,” you whisper softly, breathless and laughing.

His lips twitch faintly, breath escaping in a trembling laugh. “I know.”

You let out a soft, disbelieving laugh, brushing your nose against his, your eyes still half-lidded and glowing with warmth. “I love you too, you absolute idiot.”

And oh— The way he breaks at your words.

His eyes flutter shut, breath hitching audibly, and he exhales faintly against your mouth, voice cracking softly when he whispers, “You do?”

You nod, laughing faintly, your fingers threading softly through his hair. “Always,” you murmur. “Always.”

And this time, when he kisses you, it’s slow and lingering, sweeter than anything you’ve ever known. His hands cradle your face like you’re something fragile and holy—something he intends to hold forever.

And in that moment, you know— You always have.

[httpvomitello]

Reluctant Romance Ron Weasley x Y/N

I love your writing

Hiii there, thanks for liking my writing. But first of all, I would like to ask that when you ask for a request, please do so with as much detail as possible so that I can write and understand what you want. Only "Reluctant Romance" and similar things end up leaving me a little "stuck" in writing, not knowing where to start. That said, I hope you like it! ~ ♡

Falling for the Wrong Weasley .｡*･ﾟﾟ

Summary: Being Draco Malfoy’s younger sister meant living up to expectations—ones you could never quite reach. You weren’t cunning like him, nor confident, nor cruel. Instead, you were quiet, awkward, and always tripping over your own words. But then there was Ron Weasley—loud, stubborn, and infuriatingly kind. The one person you should never be close to. The one person who made your heart race. And when a forced partnership in class pushes you together, Ron starts seeing through the walls you put up. He sees you.

ron weasley x f!Slytherin reader

Professor Snape's voice droned in the background as you kept your head down, fingers fiddling with the hem of your sleeve.

“…And lastly, Ronald Weasley and Y/N Malfoy.”

You felt your breath hitch, panic creeping in. Your eyes snapped up, but Draco was still seated, looking bored.

Snape’s gaze found you instead.

No.

Not him.

You dared to glance at Ron Weasley, who was slumped in his seat with a grimace. His blue eyes met yours for a split second before he groaned and dropped his head onto his desk.

"You’ve got to be joking."

Draco scoffed beside you. "Her? With Weasley?" He sneered, shaking his head. "Professor, surely—"

"Do you wish to question my decisions, Mr. Malfoy?" Snape’s sharp tone cut through the room. Draco fell silent immediately, but you could feel his glare burning into your skin.

You swallowed hard, knowing what was coming.

After class, Draco wasted no time.

"Stay away from him," he hissed under his breath as you both stepped into the hallway.

You flinched. "B-but I d-didn’t—"

Draco rolled his eyes. "Merlin, you’re embarrassing. Just—just don’t talk to him. Don’t stutter around him. Hell, don’t even look at him. I don’t need people thinking I have a weird little sister who can’t even string a sentence together."

You clenched your fists. It wasn’t like you chose to stutter. It just… happened.

Draco gave you one last glare before striding off with his friends, leaving you standing alone.

You should have listened to him.

But fate had other plans.

Ron Weasley was loud.

He complained about everything—the assignment, the potion, the way you Malfoys were "a bloody nightmare to deal with."

But what was worse? He noticed everything too.

"Why don’t you ever look people in the eye?" he asked out of nowhere one day, watching as you carefully measured out an ingredient.

You froze. "I—I d-don’t—"

"That." He tilted his head. "You do that a lot."

Your face burned. You wanted to disappear, melt into the floorboards.

But then Ron did something unexpected.

He softened.

"Hey," he said, quieter this time. "I wasn’t making fun of you. I just—" He rubbed the back of his neck, looking sheepish. "I guess I’m just wondering why."

You hesitated before mumbling, "People d-don’t usually w-want to hear me t-talk."

Ron frowned. "That’s rubbish."

You gave a small, humorless laugh. "You say that, but you c-complained about being paired with me too."

Ron winced. "Alright, fair point. But I wasn’t expecting this."

"This?"

"You." His voice was quiet, thoughtful. "You’re not like your brother."

You stared at him, confused.

Ron just shrugged. "You’re alright, Malfoy."

It shouldn’t have meant so much. But it did.

You weren’t sure when things started changing.

Maybe it was when Ron started greeting you in the halls, despite Draco’s glares. Or when he’d nudge your arm in Potions and smirk, making you roll your eyes (but secretly smile). Maybe it was when he’d defend you, even when you couldn’t defend yourself.

Whatever it was, it terrified you.

Because Ron Weasley wasn’t safe.

He was reckless, unpredictable. He made you laugh, made your heart stutter worse than your words ever could.

And worst of all? He made you want.

Want things you couldn’t have.

Want things that would ruin everything.

Draco noticed.

One evening in the common room, he sat beside you, arms crossed. "You’re getting too comfortable with him."

You swallowed hard. "Draco, I—"

"Stop." His voice was cold. "You think Weasley actually cares? He’s using you."

You flinched. "That’s not true."

"Isn’t it?" Draco leaned in. "People like him don’t see people like us as equals. He’ll never choose you over his family. Over his pride."

You wanted to argue. But deep down, you feared he might be right.

And so, you made a choice.

You pushed Ron away.

"Why are you avoiding me?"

Ron cornered you outside the Great Hall, face etched with frustration.

"I—I’m not."

"You are." He narrowed his eyes. "What, did your brother finally get to you? Did he tell you to stay away from me?"

You looked away.

Ron let out a bitter laugh. "Figures."

You hesitated before whispering, "I’m just t-trying to make things easier."

"For who?" he demanded. "You? Because you don’t look happy. Or is it for him?"

Silence.

Ron shook his head, jaw clenched. "You know what? Fine. If that’s what you want."

You wanted to stop him. To tell him that it wasn’t what you wanted. That you wanted him.

But Malfoys didn’t get to have happy endings.

Or so you thought.

The night before Christmas break, you found Ron outside, his breath visible in the cold air.

"I thought you didn’t want to be seen with me," he muttered.

You hesitated before whispering, "I w-was scared."

Ron turned to you, eyes searching. "Of what?"

You took a shaky breath. "That you’d r-realize I’m not w-worth it."

His expression softened. Then, to your utter shock, he reached out and took your hand.

"You are," he said, voice firm. "You are."

Tears burned your eyes. "Draco—"

"Draco doesn’t get to decide who you are," Ron said fiercely. "You do."

And for the first time in your life, you believed it. For the first time, you decided to choose to be happy, no matter what your brother or your family will say.

[brnbeexx]

May I request Megan? I hope that's all right with you.

Scenario: Megan with an s/o who has a very strange hobby—cave diving.

Like, her s/o always be almost dying. "*ring* *ring* Oh, hey sweetheart! Sorry, I can't make it to your guys' latest concert. As you can see, I am stuck in this pitch black tunnel that is barely a foot in diameter. It's pretty awesome! It's called the Behemoth's Uterus. I am so excited about this expedition. Oh, cool! Water...oh no..."

It was a challenge for me to write this, but I hope it met ur expectations 😓

Megan Skiendiel was used to a lot of things. She was used to the long hours of rehearsal, the adrenaline rush of stepping on stage, and the feeling of pure bliss when the crowd roared to life after the final note. She was used to early mornings, late nights, and the quiet hum of a plane as it carried her and her bandmates to another city, another show, another moment under the spotlight.

What she wasn’t used to — and honestly hoped she’d never have to be — was the constant anxiety of being in love with a human disaster. Her phone buzzed violently against the practice room's windowsill. Megan ignored it at first, trying to focus on the chorus Manon was workshopping, but the buzzing persisted like a mosquito in her ear. With a sigh, she grabbed it, glancing at the screen.

She groaned. “Oh, no. Not again.”

Manon raised an eyebrow from across the room, but Megan was already answering the call. “Please, for once, tell me you’re calling from somewhere safe.”

“Hey, sweetheart!” came the ever-chipper voice of her partner. Megan’s heart plummeted. They only used that tone when they were about to tell her something insane. “Sorry I can’t make it to your show tonight. As it turns out, I am currently wedged in a pitch-black tunnel that’s barely a foot in diameter. Isn’t that awesome?”

Megan blinked. “I’m sorry. You’re what?” “Stuck in a tunnel. It’s called the Behemoth’s Uterus.” Their voice echoed faintly, like they were calling from the depths of a nightmare.

“Pretty apt name, huh?”

Megan’s stomach dropped. “Why… why are you in something called the Behemoth’s Uterus?”

“Cave diving, obviously.”

“No,” Megan whispered, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Obviously would be staying at home and not shoving yourself into dark, damp holes that actively want to kill you.”

“Babe, it’s fine. I’ve got this.” There was a scraping sound, and Megan heard them grunt softly. “Okay, so I might be a little stuck. But it’s nothing serious. Oh, cool! Water—oh no.”

“Oh no?!” Megan shrieked, standing up so fast she nearly knocked her chair over. Manon, startled, glanced up from her notebook. Megan turned away, pacing furiously. “What do you mean oh no? Are you drowning?! Is there a cave monster?! Should I be calling someone?!”

“No, no, it’s just… rising a little.”

“Rising?” Megan’s voice pitched dangerously high. “Like… over your head rising, or ‘it’s just touching my ankles, Megan, don’t worry’ rising?”

“…Somewhere in between?”

“Oh my God.” Megan pressed a hand to her forehead, feeling the start of a migraine. “You are literally calling me from inside a watery tomb.”

“Not a tomb yet!” they said brightly. “I’m wriggling out as we speak. Anyway, how’s rehearsal?”

Megan nearly hurled her phone across the room. “How’s rehearsal?! I’m about to lose my mind, and you’re making small talk?”

“Well, yeah. No point in panicking. Panicking just makes you get stuck harder.”

Megan stared at the ceiling, silently pleading with the universe for strength. “I swear to God, when you get out of there, I am duct-taping you to a chair and making you watch every documentary about the dangers of extreme sports.”

“Aw, babe. That’s sweet.” They grunted again, followed by a wet scraping sound. Megan flinched. “Besides, if I die, I’ll haunt your concerts. Front-row seats.”

“That is not comforting.”

Their laughter — light and mischievous, completely out of place considering the circumstances — filled her ear. And despite everything, Megan’s heart clenched. The truth was, this was why she’d fallen for them. That wild, untamable spirit, the way they chased every thrill like it was their last, was as intoxicating as it was terrifying.

“Please don’t die,” she whispered, her voice softening. “I really, really don’t want you to die.”

“I won’t.” Their voice was gentle now, soft like the first time they’d held her hand. “Promise.”

Megan swallowed the lump in her throat. “Okay. Just… call me when you’re out. Alive.”

“You got it. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

The line went dead. Megan lowered the phone slowly, staring at the screen like it personally offended her. Then, with a groan, she dropped into her chair and buried her face in her hands.

Manon peered over her notebook. “Everything okay?”

Megan let out a long, pained sigh. “They’re stuck in a cave.”

“…Again?”

“Yes. Again.”

Manon whistled low, shaking her head. “You sure know how to pick ‘em.”

“Don’t I?” Megan muttered, resting her head on the table. She squeezed her eyes shut, counting down the minutes until the next inevitable heart attack.

————————

Megan wasn’t sure when she fell asleep. One minute she was lying on the couch, her phone clutched tightly in her hand, staring at the ceiling and waiting for a text — or any kind of sign — that her partner had made it out of the Behemoth’s Uterus alive. The next thing she knew, the soft click of the front door made her eyelids flutter open.

She sat up immediately, heart racing. The living room was dark, the only light spilling in from the streetlamp outside. For a moment, she wondered if she’d imagined it, but then she heard the distinct sound of boots being kicked off haphazardly. Megan scrambled to her feet. “Sweetheart?” she called softly, her voice still husky with sleep.

A soft grunt answered her from the hallway, followed by the sound of something heavy hitting the floor. Megan rushed toward the noise, nearly colliding with a familiar figure slumped against the wall. Her partner looked… well, like they’d been through hell. Their clothes were caked in mud and something that smelled faintly of stagnant water. There were new scrapes along their arms, and their hair was a wet, tangled mess. But they were alive. Breathing. Standing.

Megan didn’t know whether to kiss them or strangle them.

“Oh my God.” She grabbed their face in her hands, tilting it up to meet her gaze. Their eyes were tired but bright, and they smiled like they hadn’t nearly drowned underground a few hours ago. “You’re alive.”

“Told you I’d make it out.” They grinned. “You worry too much.”

Megan let out a shaky breath, resting her forehead against theirs. “You’re unbelievable.”

They chuckled softly, their arms wrapping around her waist, pulling her close. Megan melted into the embrace, feeling their warmth seep into her bones. “I’m sorry I scared you,” they whispered, pressing a soft kiss to her temple. “I’m okay now. I promise.”

Megan didn’t answer right away. She just held them tighter, burying her face in their neck. “You’re taking a bath,” she mumbled against their skin. “And then we’re having the talk.”

They pulled back slightly, raising an eyebrow. “The talk?”

“The one about how you’re never doing this again,” Megan said firmly, though her voice wavered. “I can’t keep getting calls from you while you’re stuck in some godforsaken death cave. My heart can’t take it.”

They cupped her face gently, their thumb brushing away a tear she hadn’t realized had fallen. “Okay,” they whispered. “No more caves.”

Megan blinked. “Really?”

“Well… maybe just the shallow ones.”

She groaned loudly, pushing them toward the bathroom. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love me.”

“Unfortunately.”

Their laughter echoed down the hall as Megan followed them, already mentally preparing herself for the next heart attack they’d inevitably give her. But for now, they were home. Safe. And that was enough.

[triptychcryptid]

Lol, whether they realize it or not, @tinfoil-jones is helping me flesh out my AU aLOT. XD Some of these have come about from convos with TJ.

So after DD Stan finally manages to get home, the kids would just like instantly love him after getting over the terror of "this guy just came out of a portal and punched my uncle!" XD He's like their cool space Indiana Jones uncle with a dinosaur and alien friend who's also super cool and nice to them.

Dipper would ask him a billion questions about his travels, and Stevie and would LOSE HIS MIND when Stan lent him his translator to talk to her. It would be the coolest thing ever! He gets to talk to a real. Live. Dinosaur. He'd be much more willing to answer Dipper's questions than cannon Ford would/could.

Mabel would make him and Stevie new dino themed sweaters all the time and friendship bracelets for Stan. Pretty soon, he'd just be covered in them. XD And he'd let her do his nails sometimes too and she'd make him new earrings. She would LOVE that Saoirse lets Mabel dress her up and do her make-up and nails all the time, too. I think at one point, Saoirse would take the kids to the mall with the sole purpose of letting Mabel pick an outfit for her, and no matter what it is, she'll buy it and wear it. She also gets the kids some clothes and whatever the hell else they want and they eat lunch in the food court. XD

After Stan eventually kills Ford and destroys Bill, he's got...alot to process. He didn't expect to be conflicted about it after basically dreaming about it for 30 years. But in the end, Ford was still his brother.

Sherman ends up helping him alot with his trauma, both pre-existing from his shitty childhood, years of being homeless and THE PORTALING, and then everything after he got back. Stan moves into Ford's house and immediately gets to work on remodeling and updating appliances and whatnot. Sherman helps him find contractors to do the work.

Also, there are ghosts, but they are much less scary than the horrors Stan saw in the multiverse, so he doesn't mind them. Except for when they change the channel during his soaps. Then he torments them as penance. XD

Up until Sherman started helping Stan with his healing, Stan got semi-frequent nightmares about dinosaurs. This sounds cute and funny until you realize they were about being chased by them. Hiding somewhere while he listened to the thudding footsteps get closer, the low growling mixed with heavy breathing. Hoping to GOD the knife he'd fashioned out of a femur he'd found would cause damage if need be. He also dreamed of being asleep and waking to a large scaley head above him, rows of sharp teeth dripping with saliva and the blood of a previous kill as the jaws snapped down into his head.

Why these specific nightmares? Because they happened on that dinosaur planet. He avoided the jaws each time he woke up to a dino above him, but only just barely.

After these dreams, he couldn't go back to sleep and would end up staying up, getting a snack, a glass of whiskey and watching tv until morning. Stevie would stay up with him, curl up in his lap and let him absently stroke her feathers until he fell asleep on the couch.

@localcanadiancreature62

[somegrumpynerd]

Thinking about how Nightmare has 4 mortals and 3 of them are so so bad at taking care of themselves

[cowardlykrow]

Even a hero needs some hope

[kattricia]

studying linguistics is fun until you start doubting the existence of language. what even is a word. what is a sentence. am i a sentence?? every time i blink i remember i still don’t know how to define modality (well okay i do know but the knowledge of it is terrifying. like we can promise so much by saying so little it's overwhelming HELP). i’m not preparing for exams, i’m spiraling in IPA

[autism-corner]

i would love to play NB like how i play the OG but that transition is so hard and i just now realized why.

autism.

[readingwriter92]

See I was so mad at not having written like anything this month that I sat down to write two hundred words and I succeeded in about 400 so the trick worked!

[luvbabydoll]

— under their noses — chapter one

a series by © luvbabydoll — inspired by @goatgoesmbe

you never intended to start an only fans.

but between nursing school, grueling shifts, and bills that refused to pay themselves, you had to get creative. and what started as a desperate attempt to make ends meet quickly turned into a steady income.

the men on their seemed to like you. they liked your voice, the softness in your tone, the way you spoke like you meant it. you never showed your full face, but that only added to the mystery. you played into it—the sweet, teasing persona, the gentle praise, the intimacy that kept men coming back for more.

and, completely unknowingly, the entirety of Task Force 141 had fallen for you.

—

it had all started months ago.

one of their missions had gone sideways—bad intel, long hours, more bodies than they were expecting. and by the time they got back to base, exhausted and strung out, all they wanted was food, alcohol, and sleep.

but mostly alcohol.

soap was the first to bring it up.

slumped against a crate, half a bottle of whiskey deep, he let out a groan and muttered, “boys, i think i’m in love.”

gaz snorted, kicking his boots up on the table. “oh, yeah? you have some girl we don’t know about?”

“angel.”

ghost, who had been silently nursing his drink, stiffened.

gaz raised an eyebrow, “angel…?”

soap pulled out his phone and waved it lazily. “she’s some onlyfans girl, mate. best thing that i ever stumbled upon. swear to god, she cares about me.”

gaz laughed. “you are down horrendous, johnny boy.”

“oi, don’t judge me ‘til you’ve heard her. this girl is unreal. always saying the nicest things.” soap sighed dramatically.

gaz rolled his eyes. “yeah, mate. ‘cause she’s getting paid to do that.”

“so? it still counts for me.”

gaz held out a hand. “alright alright, lemme see.”

soap hesitated for a moment. “...fine. but don’t be weird about it.”

gaz took the phone, tapped through a few of the videos, and went silent.

after a moment, he muttered, “okay, shit. you might be onto something.”

soap smirked miraculously. “told you.”

ghost, who had been quietly brooding, finally spoke. “you idiots just now finding out about her?”

they both turned to look at him shocked.

gaz blinked. “w-wait, what?”

ghost took a sip of his whiskey, deadpan. “i’ve been subscribed for months.”

soap choked on his drink. “YOU WHAT?”

ghost shrugged carelessly. “found her first.”

gaz’s jaw dropped. “y-you mean to tell me you—simon ‘i hate everyone’ riley—has been secretly been subscribed to an onlyfans girl this whole time?”

ghost didn’t answer. he just took another sip of his whiskey.

soap stared at him, with a look of betrayal that you see in movies. “and you didn’t tell us?”

ghost gave him a flat look. “why the fuck would i tell you?”

soap pointed aggressively. “you gatekeeping bastard.”

gaz shook his head in amusement. “price is gonna lose his shit when he finds out.”

“Finds out what?”

the three of them turned to see price walking in, looking mildly suspicious.

for a moment, nobody spoke.

and then, without missing a beat, gaz held out the phone. “cap. you gotta see this.”

and that’s how, in the span of one drunken night, every single one of them became your most loyal subscribers.

—

and then you arrived.

your first day on base was nothing special—standard introductions, paperwork, getting settled.

well for you, at least.

but for them? it was a nightmare.

soap noticed it at first.

your voice—was way too familiar. too exact. the way you spoke, the soft warmth in your tone. it sent a shiver down his spine.

gaz eventually picked up on the way you moved—the tilt of your head, the way your fingers ghosted over their skin during check-ups.

ghost, who was normally unreadable, was tense.

and price? price just sighed a lot.

none of them said anything. they couldn’t.

because if they were wrong—if this was just some wild coincidence—then they’d look like absolute idiots.

but if they were right?

then their sweet, soft-spoken angel had just walked into their lives, completely unaware that every single one of them had been on their knees for her voice alone.

and fuck, they were not prepared for that.

[ccsainzleclerc5516]

You’re My Baby Too

Pairing: Lando Norris x reader

Warnings: none

You'd think that the second pregnancy would be a breeze. You already know everything about how it goes, how to prepare, what to expect, but in your case, your second pregnancy was dreadful.

First trimester, horrible nausea, you spent half your time over the toilet with Lando holding your hair. Your baby boy was so much bigger than Isla it made your back hurt like crazy all the time, and the worst thing of all was that your baby boy didn't wanna come out.

You prayed you wouldn't give birth before Lando finished the season, so when the season ended you were relieved. But then your due date passed, and nothing happened. Then five days passed after your due date, nothing again. 10 days after your due date - the baby just doesn't wanna come out.

You were frustrated, exhausted, and tired of being pregnant. You just wanted to be able to see your feet again and be able to get up off the couch without Lando having to pull your hand.

"It's because you make such a good home for him he doesn't wanna come out, love." Lando tried to calm you down in a nice way, not even realizing that he irritated you with that because he's been saying that for the last 10 days and your nerves have become very thin hearing it.

"I swear, if you say that one more time.." You barked rolling your eyes at him while holding your still very pregnant belly.

"I'm sorry, I'll shut up.."

“Thank you.” You glared at him.

He didn't hold it against you for your brazen response because he understood that it had become too much for you. Lately, he's been walking on eggshells around you because everything has been annoying you, and he didn't want to be the one to contribute to that.

When the twelfth day passed since your due date, you realized that too much time had passed and you even started to worry a little that something was wrong. So Lando decided to take you to the hospital, where you very clearly told the doctor that you weren't leaving the place until you gave birth.

You thought that by some miracle, as soon as you stepped into the hospital, labor would start and you would just pop the baby out and everything would be over in less than two hours just like it was with Isla, but of course that wasn't the case with this baby.

"I think we have no other choice but to induce the labor." The doctor said.

"Okay, how long does it take?" You asked. "Is it like natural labor or?"

"Induced labor can last from a few hours to a few days, it depends. It's most often completed within 12 to 18 hours from the start of the procedure."

"Oh my God" You sighed in despair with tears in your eyes and Lando immediately squeezed your hand to offer you at least some comfort.

"Does it hurt more than a normal birth?" Lando was very concerned about how painful it would be for you. While you were giving birth to Isla, Lando was of course by your side, and even though it was much shorter and easier, he was still terribly shaken to see the pain you went through.

"I don't want to discourage you and scare you right from the start, but many women have said that induced labor is more painful."

And boy oh boy was it painful.

When they gave you the drip to induce contractions, that's when the real agony began. The drip makes contractions stronger and more frequent and you can't even begin to explain what you'd compare that pain to.

You were sweating.

Crying.

Gripping the sides of the bed and Lando's hand, which at one point you thought you were going to break.

You honestly felt like dying. What was supposed to be the most beautiful experience of your life was quickly turning into a nightmare.

Lando was heartbroken seeing you like this. He was putting cold compresses on you, hugging you, kissing you, comforting you, begging you to endure this.

"I'm so sorry baby, I wish I could go through this instead of you. I'm so sorry."

He didn't leave you for a second, except when you caught a 5-minute break from the contractions and managed to close your eyes for at least a moment and calm down. Lando said he had to go to the bathroom.

He lied actually. Instead he went to the hallway outside your room where his parents were patiently waiting. By the look on his face, Cisca and Adam could see that Lando was not well and that he himself was traumatized.

Lando didn't say anything, he just hugged Cisca and buried his face in her neck, soaking her shoulder with tears.

"I'm so fucking scared for her. It wasn't like this the first time." Lando cried quietly.

"Oh honey, y/n's going to be alright, I promise you. I know it doesn't seem like it right now, but soon this will pass and you'll be going home with your baby." Cisca comforted trying to lift his spirits. "Honey, you need to get yourself together, alright? She needs you right now and you need to be there for her."

When labor finally began after 14 long hours, you were running out of strength. You were so exhausted that you weren't sure if you would be able to push the baby out.

"Push y/n, push!" The doctor encouraged.

"I c-can't" You cried breathing rapidly. "Lando, I can't do it.."

"Come on baby, you can, I know you can. Just a little bit more and it's done, I promise. You've got this" He was pushing your hair out of your face, holding your hand, and holding your leg at the same time.

"Come on, push, push! I can see the head!"

Finally, the baby's cry was heard and soon the baby boy was on your chest. As soon as you saw him, all the pain instantly vanished.

He was so perfect. So worth it.

Lando couldn't contain his emotions as he rested his head on your shoulder, carefully observing his baby.

Later that day, when everything had calmed down, Lando was still there by your side. He couldn't be separated from you nor did he want to. His gaze shifted between you and the baby watching you both sleep peacefully.

He was tired too. He didn't really remember the last time he slept, but he knew you had it worse than him anyway, so he didn't even think of complaining.

"Lan?"

"Hey, love" His face lit up when you opened your eyes. When he saw you smile, it brought energy back to him. He took your hand and pressed a kiss to it. "Did you get some rest?"

"I did, why didn't you?" You asked him when you saw the huge dark circles under his eyes and the same clothes from the day before yesterday. "Baby, please go home, I know you're exhausted too."

"The only way I'm getting out of here is with you two."

You didn't want to argue with him because you knew it was pointless. You were just grateful that he was there and that he was yours.

"My pretty, pretty girl. I'm so proud of you." Lando said softly caressing your cheek and looking into your tired eyes. "I love you so much you know that, right?"

"I know, I can feel it. I love you too, so much." You say before kissing him. "Where are our kids?"

"This little guy is sleeping here without a care in the world."

"And Isla? She didn't come with your parents?"

"No, I told them not to bring her because I knew you'd get too emotional if you saw her, and I wanted you to rest as much as possible."

"You should've told them to bring her, I really miss her and I can't wait for her to meet her brother." You said, but you could still see the worry in Lando's eyes. "I'm fine, Lan, I promise."

"We're done with the kids. Our family is complete now."

"Lan.." You chuckled.

"No, I'm serious. I never want to see you go through so much pain again. It's been so hard to watch you like that and not be able to do anything and I'm not putting you through it again. "

"It was worth it tho. Look at him, he's so perfect. I'd do it all over again for our baby"

"I know, I know, but you're my baby too." No matter how many children you have, his protective attitude towards you will never change.

"Oh, love.." You pulled his hand to get up from the chair and come sit on the bed next to you so you can cuddle up next to him.

"I can't wait to take you home, both of you." He said quietly kissing your forehead.

You rested your head on his chest, knowing that wherever you are, as long as he's there, everything is fine.

[vadlings]

Represention of Autistic Frustration in Laios Dungeon Meshi

Like many other autistic people, I related strongly to Laios Touden while reading Dungeon Meshi. This post isn't going to spend time disputing whether he displays autistic traits or not—while I could do that, I want to focus on why specifically his portrayal struck a chord with me in a way the writing of most other autistic-coded characters has not.

Disclaimer: as the above suggests, this post is strongly informed by my own experiences as an autistic person, as well as the experiences of my neurodivergent friends with whom I have spoken about this subject. I want to clarify that in no way am I asserting my personal experience to be some Universal Autistic Experience. This post is about why Laios' character feels distinct and significant to me in regard to autistic representation, and while I'm at it, I do feel that I have interesting things to say about autistic representation in media generally. This also got a bit long, so I'm sticking it under a read more. Spoilers for up to the end of chapter 88 below.

The thing that stands out most to me in regard to Laios' characterisation is the open anger he displays when someone points out his inability to read other people. This comes up prominently in his interactions with "Shuro" (Toshiro Nakamoto):

The frustration pictured above (Laios continuing to physically tussle with Toshiro, using crude language toward him) becomes even more notable when you remember that this is Laios, who, outside of these interactions, is not easily fazed and often exists as a lighthearted contrast to the rest of the cast. Then we get to Laios' nightmare.

In Falin's words: "Nightmares love emotional wounds. Wounds you hold in your heart. Things that give you stress, or things that were traumatic for you. They aggravate memories like that and cause the dreamer to have terrible dreams." (chapter 42, page 10.) (damn. i'm properly citing for this post and everything.)

Thus, Laios' nightmare establishes an important fact: even if he is unable to recognise social blunders while he's making them, he's at least subconsciously aware that other people operate on a different wavelength to him, and that he's an outsider in many of his social circles (both past and present). His dream-father's disparaging words stress the impact this has had upon his ability to live up to the expectations set out for him, and we also get a panel of kids who smirk at him (presumably former bullies to some degree). Toshiro's appearance only hammers home how much Laios is still both humiliated and angered by his misunderstanding of their relationship.

I've thought a lot about anger as concomitant to the autistic experience. When autistic representation portrays ostracization, it's generally from an angle of the autistic character being upset at how conforming to neurotypical norms doesn't come easily to them; as a result, they express a desire to 'get better' at meeting neurotypical standards, a desire to become more 'normal' (whether the writing implies this is a good thing or not). In contrast, not once does Laios go, "I need to perform better in my social interactions, and try to care less about monsters, because that's what other people find weird." His frustration is directed outward rather than inward, and as a result, it's the people around him who are framed as nonsensical.

The Winged Lion starts delineating Laios' anger, and Laios' reaction is to think to himself, "It can sense all my thoughts, huh?" (chapter 88, page 16.) This is the scene that really resonated with me. I'm not saying I have never felt the desire to conform to neurotypical norms that is borne from insecurity, but primarily, I know that I don't want to work toward becoming 'normal'—I don't want to change myself for people who follow rules I find nonsensical. It's the difference between, "Oh god, why can't I get it," and, "WHY CAN'T YOU GET IT?" (phrasing here courtesy of my friend Miles @dogwoodbite). And for me personally, Dungeon Meshi is the first time I've seen this frustration and the resultant voluntary isolation from other people portrayed in media so candidly. Laios' anger is not downplayed or written to be easily palatable, either.

The culmination of Laios' frustrations in this scene wherein we learn that Laios has fantasised about "a pack of monsters attacking a village" drives home just how alienated he really feels. I need not go into his wish to become a monster himself, redolent of how many autistic people identify/have identified with non-humans to some degree as a result of a percieved disconnect from society (when I was younger, I wanted to be a robot. I still kind of do.)

Obviously, wishing death upon other people is a weighty thing, but the unfiltered nature of this page is what deeply resonated with me. The Winged Lion is laying Laios' deepest and most transgressive desires bare, and they are desires that are a product of lifelong ostracization by others (whether intentional or unintentional). This is the brand of anger I'm familiar with, and that my neurodivergent friends express being familiar with, but that I haven't seen portrayed in writing so explicitly before—in fact, it surprised me because most well-meaning autistic representation I've experienced veers toward infantilisation in trying make the autistic character's struggles easy for neurotypicals to sympathise with.

Let's also not neglect the symbolism inherent to Laios' daydream. "A pack of monsters attacking a village". Functionally, monsters are Laios' special interest—he percieves everything first and foremost through his passion for monsters. His daydream of monsters attacking—killing—humans, is fundamentally a daydream of the world he understands (monsters) overthrowing the world that is so illogical to him, that has repeatedly shunned him (other people). I joked to my friends that it's an autistic power fantasy, and it actually sort of is. And in it, his identity is aligned with that of the monsters, while his anger manifests in a palpable dissociation from the rest of humanity. This is one manga page. It's brief. It's also very, very raw to me. I think about it often.

To conclude, I love Laios Dungeon Meshi. This portrayal of open frustration in an autistic character meant a lot to me, and I hope I've sufficiently outlined why. Also, feel free to recommend media with autistic representation in the notes if you've read this far—I would really like to see if there is more of this nature. Thank you for reading. I'm very tired and should probably sleep now.

[killerplink]

Shameless

Pairing: Jason Todd x Female Reader

Words: 10k

Plot: You're supposed to head straight home after the bar. You really are. But you're drunk, and needy, and desperate for his dick, so now you're in some alley getting fucked stupid against a wall.

CW: established relationship, 18+, smut, drunk sex, praise kink, size kink, public sex, rough sex, overstimulation, creampie, aftercare

The bar is dim and comfortably loud, some old rock song spilling from the jukebox while Jason leans back against the booth, arm draped along the backrest, watching you with a lazy smile. You're already two drinks and some shots deep—which, for you, is a lot—and it shows in the way you're slumped just slightly against his side, giggly and loose, eyes a little glassy under the neon glow.

He knew you needed this. Knew this week had been a fucking nightmare for you. And yeah, maybe getting you tipsy wasn't the most responsible move, but God, you're cute like this, all soft and clingy and running your mouth without a filter.

"Y'know," you slur a little, gesturing wildly with your glass, "that bitch from the subway? The one who kept pushing into me?" Your brows knit together in offended disbelief, like you're personally wounded all over again just thinking about her. "I shoulda knocked her fucking teeth out."

Jason has to bite the inside of his cheek, his grip tightening on his beer bottle as he lifts it to his lips. You're so damn small, and the way you say it, all dramatic and dead serious, makes it even funnier. But you're not joking. You slam your palm against his chest to drive the point home, which, to you, probably feels like a decent smack, but to him, it's barely a tap.

"Right?" you demand, eyes wide and expectant, waiting for him to back you up.

Jason clears his throat, desperately swallowing the grin threatening to break free. "Yeah, baby. Totally. Shoulda knocked her the fuck out."

"Exactly!" you nod so hard your whole body sways, and Jason has to steady you with his free hand to keep you from sliding right off the seat. "No respect. None! Who does that?"

You keep ranting, every slurred complaint punctuated with another dramatic gesture or a wild wave of your drink. Jason just sits there, half-listening, half-savoring how fucking adorable you are like this, all small and feisty, tipsy and dramatic, tucked into his side like you belong there.

He loves you so much it's fucking stupid. And it's only a matter of time before that sweet mouth of yours gets him into trouble tonight—one way or another.

By the time your third drink arrives, your body feels warm and heavy, head swimming in that sweet, fuzzy way that makes everything feel a little softer, a little funnier, and way hornier than it should.

Jason's sitting there next to you, all broad and solid, wearing that black t-shirt that stretches just right over his chest and arms, showing off all that ink. His thighs, thick and spread wide, are right there next to yours, and you can't help yourself—your free hand starts to wander.

You trace slow circles along the inside of his thigh, your fingers sneaking higher each time until your knuckles almost brush the bulge straining against his jeans. Jason tenses just slightly, the muscle under your palm jumping at the touch, but he doesn't stop you right away.

He's used to your drunk grabby hands by now, and hell, it's flattering how fast you get worked up for him. But his dick? His dick's got no chill, thick and half-hard already, and your teasing fingers aren't helping.

"Baby," he murmurs, his free hand curling around your wrist, stopping you gently. "Behave."

You pout instantly, squirming closer until you're practically in his lap, your big, glossy eyes locked on his like you're about to cry over it.

"Jay," you mumble, voice all soft and slurred, "you're so fucking hot."

He huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he takes another sip of his beer. "Am I?"

You nod. Hard. Like you're trying to convince him of a life-or-death fact. "Hottest guy I ever been with," you say, and Jason's ears go pink at the blunt praise. "Can't believe you chose me."

Jason's brow arches, that soft smile curving his lips. "What do you mean, pretty girl?"

You just shrug, lifting your drink to your mouth again, and miss it entirely, half your sip spilling down your chin, sticky and sweet. Jason sighs, amused, and reaches out with his thumb, gently swiping the alcohol off your skin.

That's when your grin turns wicked. Before he can pull his hand away, you catch his wrist, pulling his thumb between your lips. Your tongue flicks against the pad before you suck gently, cleaning off the spill like it's the most natural thing in the world. But your mind? Your drunk, horny mind immediately derails into filth.

You wish it was his cock instead—thick and hot, sliding across your tongue, stretching your lips wide, fucking your throat until you're gagging and drooling and swallowing down every messy drop of his cum.

Your thighs clench under the table, the sudden rush of slick making you squirm, a soft whimper slipping out before you can stop it. Jason's brow furrows, his beer halfway to his mouth.

"Baby," he asks, voice lower now, "you okay?"

You nod too hard again, the world tilting slightly around you as you lean in, your hand landing high on his thigh once more. "Wanna fuck," you whisper, way too loud for how crowded the bar is.

Jason barks out a surprised laugh, shaking his head like he can't believe you. But fuck if it isn't turning him on, how unfiltered and needy you get for him when you're drunk.

"Jesus Christ," he mutters, tipping back the rest of his beer in one long swallow before setting the bottle down with a clink. "Okay, pretty girl. Let me pay the tab and we'll go home, yeah?"

You hum happily, already leaning into his side, and Jason's hand settles warm on your thigh, fingers tracing mindless shapes while his other hand fishes his wallet out. You're still thinking about his dick—hot and leaking, sliding into your mouth, fucking your throat open before he bends you over and makes a mess of your pussy. And you've got zero intention of waiting until you're home to get your hands on him.

Before you leave, you decide you need the bathroom, weaving your way through the crowded bar with Jason's hand at the small of your back, his touch warm and steady, guiding you even though you're not exactly steady yourself.

The bathroom is... well, a Gotham bar bathroom—dim, one flickering fluorescent light buzzing overhead, cracked mirror, graffiti covering the stall doors. It smells like vodka, faint piss, and one of those cheap lavender air fresheners, and honestly? You've pissed in worse. You handle your business, wash your hands, and catch your reflection in the smeared mirror.

You look... a little wrecked already. Cheeks flushed, lips glossy and a little swollen from how you've been biting at them all night. Your eyeliner's still holding on, but your hair's a mess from leaning into Jason every time you got touchy—and you always get touchy when you drink. Still, even a little tipsy and sloppy, you grin at yourself, knowing damn well Jason still looks at you like you hung the fucking moon.

You smooth your hands down your skirt, adjust your top, and stumble your way back out, only to immediately see her.

Some too-pretty bitch draping herself all over your man like she doesn't know he's taken, her stupid pink acrylic nails tracing up his arm, leaning way too close into his space like she's got a shot in hell.

And Jason? He looks exactly like you expect—bored out of his fucking mind. He doesn't smile, doesn't lean back, doesn't flirt. His body stays turned toward you, eyes scanning for you even as she talks, and the second you step back into view, his shoulders relax like Thank fuck you're back.

But you? Oh, you're seeing red.

"Excuse me?" you shout, voice cutting through the music and bar chatter like a fucking gunshot. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

Jason groans under his breath—"Oh, shit." —but it's too late. You're already stomping toward them, small but furious, your heels clacking hard against the floor like you're about to fight for your goddamn life.

The girl barely gets a chance to blink before you're in her face, finger jabbing at her chest, your other hand pointing wildly at Jason like a woman unhinged.

"That's my man, you thirsty fucking skank. Go throw yourself at someone who doesn't have a girlfriend."

Jason stands immediately, his big hand wrapping around your waist, physically lifting you off the floor because you're already reaching for her hair, fully prepared to drag her across the bar.

"Doll," he says, low and firm, voice edged with both amusement and actual concern. "C'mon, pretty girl, let's go."

"No!" you shout, flailing in his grip like a feral little cat. "She—she touched you! You're mine!"

"I know, baby," Jason says, voice softer now, soothing, his lips brushing your ear as he starts hauling you toward the door. "I'm all yours, always yours, pretty girl, you know that."

The girl stares in shock, but Jason doesn't even glance back at her. His only focus is you. His loud, drunk, ridiculously hot girlfriend who's out here ready to commit assault over him, and damn if that doesn't make him feel a little smug.

Outside, the cool night air hits you, and you're still huffy, arms crossed tight, refusing to look at him. Jason tugs you into the nearest alley, far enough from the entrance that you've got a little privacy, and then he tips your chin up gently, making you meet his eyes.

"Baby," he says, soft and serious, "you know I don't give a fuck about anyone else, right? You're it for me. My perfect girl. Nobody else even exists."

You bite your lip, still pouting, but your heart melts, all fuzzy and warm at the edges. "Promise?"

"Swear on my life," Jason says, hand over his heart, even though you both know his heart's been yours since the day you stumbled into his world.

You sigh dramatically, leaning into him, forehead to his chest. "Okay," you mumble. "But if she looks at you again, I'm breaking her nose."

Jason huffs a laugh, arms wrapping tight around you, hiding his smile in your hair. "I know you will, doll."

Then it hits him. Fuck. He walked you both here. No car, no bike. And now he's got to get your tipsy, horny, fight-happy ass home on foot.

"Oh, this is gonna be a long walk," Jason mutters, but even with the impending chaos, all he feels is love.

Wild, messy, absolutely fucking insane love for his feral little girlfriend who'd burn the world down for him if he asked. Jason's big hand reaches for yours, callused fingers curling gently around your smaller ones, and you let him intertwine them, your palm snug against his, so much bigger, so warm, so him.

You look up at him, eyes still wide and pouty, lip poked out just a little, and Jason can't help it. He leans down, catching your mouth with his in a kiss that's meant to be sweet, but fuck, you're drunk and needy and soft under him, and it goes from gentle to hot and sloppy real fast.

You moan against his mouth, pressing up on your toes to get closer, tongue sweeping into his mouth, tasting beer and Jason and the faintest hint of cigarette smoke. Your free hand slides between you, fingers tracing down the front of his jeans until you find his dick, thick and warm, already stirring to life the second your palm cups him.

"Jesus Christ," Jason mutters against your lips, breaking the kiss with a panting breath. "Baby, you're insatiable."

"Yeah," you giggle, voice all breathy and fucked out already. "I want you so bad, Jay."

He takes a deep breath, trying to get his pulse under control, even though his cock is already hardening under your touch.

"C'mon, baby, let's get going. We'll be home in no time, yeah?"

You shake your head so violently you nearly knock yourself over, and Jason's quick, both hands grabbing your waist to steady you, brows raised in that exasperated, fond way that makes you feel like the most spoiled little brat in the world.

"No?" he asks, amusement curling in his voice. "What do you want, then?"

You pout, full-on drunk girl tantrum loading, tugging at his shirt like a needy little gremlin. "I want your dick, baby."

Jason laughs, head tipping back, the sound echoing off the brick alley walls. "I know, baby. And you'll get it." He cups your face, thumb dragging across your lower lip, eyes warm and full of affection. "Home. I'm not fuckin' you against a dumpster in Crime Alley."

You whine, actually whine, stomping your foot once for good measure. "But I'm so wet, Jay," you mumble, words all slurred and pouty. "My pussy hurts."

"Baby," Jason groans, running a hand down his face like he's in actual physical pain from trying to be a good man right now. "You are killin' me."

"So fuck me," you say, all wide-eyed, like you've cracked the fucking code.

Jason breathes deep through his nose, hands settling firm on your hips, holding you just far enough away from his dick so you can't start rubbing all over him again.

"Baby. Baby. Listen to me."

"No," you cut in, dramatically folding your arms under your tits, cleavage spilling in your too-tight top. "You listen to me. You always wanna fuck me. Why not now?"

Jason pinches the bridge of his nose, muttering something about needing fucking therapy, before he cups your cheeks again, squishing them until your lips pucker.

"Pretty girl, I do always wanna fuck you. But if I fuck you here, in this nasty-ass alley, I will never forgive myself. And you, my sweet, drunk little menace, will complain the whole way home about how your knees hurt or your back hurts or how you got gum in your hair from leanin' against this filthy fuckin' wall."

You blink at him, brain working overtime to process all that, and then you sniff. "Fine."

"Thank fuck," Jason sighs.

"But I'm walking all sexy so you stare at my ass the whole way."

"Baby," Jason groans, sliding a hand down to smack your ass once, hard enough to make you squeal and giggle. "You're a fuckin' nightmare."

"A sexy nightmare," you correct, wagging a finger in his face before you twirl dramatically toward the sidewalk, hips swinging like you're on a runway.

Jason follows, shaking his head, but fuck if he isn't staring at your ass just like you wanted. Even under the dim streetlights, the sway of your hips is hypnotic, that short skirt barely covering you, and all he can think about is getting you home, spreading you out, and ruining you properly.

But first? He's gotta get you both back alive.

His hand settles on the small of your back again, eyes scanning every shadow, every rooftop, every alley you pass, because it's Gotham. And drunk, horny, dramatic as you are, you're still his most precious thing—the only thing he'd throw himself in front of a bullet for without a second thought.

"Stay close, baby," he murmurs, fingers curling in your waistband, keeping you just a little closer as you both make your way down the sidewalk. "Don't need you wanderin' off."

You hum, leaning into him for a second before dancing away, spinning in a circle because you're drunk and happy and feeling yourself, and Jason knows—knows—that if you weren't so fucking adorable, he'd have lost his mind years ago.

His hand stays wrapped around yours, big and warm and strong, fingers interlocked so tight it feels like he's afraid you'll slip away if he lets go. You're not even thinking about the way his grip has a slight edge to it, the way his shoulders stay tense, scanning every shadow you pass, every figure leaning against a wall or sitting on a curb. To you, it's just Jason holding your hand like he always does, but to him, it's the only way to stop himself from grabbing the nearest asshole staring at your tits and slamming their face into a brick wall.

Because yeah, you're loud. Laughing too hard at your own jokes, voice bouncing off every building as you tell him how much you love his biceps, actually grabbing his arm with both hands and smooshing your cheek against it like it's the only pillow you ever want again.

"Baby, I swear to God, I think your arm is bigger than my whole head," you giggle, fingers barely stretching around the thickness of his bicep.

Your cheek stays pressed against him, your lips practically kissing the fabric of his jacket, and Jason just grunts, biting back a smile.

He's trying so fucking hard to stay focused. You're walking through downtown Gotham, and even though you're getting closer to Bristol, you're still technically in territory where he knows half the guys on the sidewalk have at least one weapon on them.

But you? You're bouncing beside him in your cute little skirt, tits pushed up perfectly, heels clicking on the pavement, and every time you laugh, your nipples press against the thin fabric like a filthy little tease.

Jason glances down just once, and fuck, you're not wearing a bra. His jaw clenches so tight his teeth might crack.

"Jay, Jay—hey," you tug at his arm, nearly tripping over a crack in the sidewalk. He catches you before you fall, one strong hand on your hip, the other still holding your hand tight. "I'm okay!" you announce, way too loud, grinning up at him.

"Yeah, I see that," he mutters, tugging you closer so you're practically walking under his arm now. "Maybe let me steer, baby, before you snap one of those pretty ankles."

You just hum, leaning into his side, your arm wrapping around his waist, your cheek back against his ribs this time, and you barely reach his shoulder like this, even with the height boost from your heels.

It's obscene, really, how small you are compared to him, and Jason feels it everywhere. In the way your soft hand barely wraps around his fingers, the way your arm can't even get all the way around his torso, the way your chin tilts up so far just to meet his eyes.

It's making his dick throb again, especially with the way you keep pressing against him like you can't get close enough, your tits practically plastered to his side. And when your hand slips lower, over his hip, fingers skimming his belt? Yeah, his dick definitely stirs again, already half-hard in his jeans.

But Jason grits his teeth, eyes flicking down a side street where a couple of guys lean against a car, watching you both pass with a little too much interest.

He could end them. Real easy. But that means letting go of you for even a second, and in a place like this, that's too much time.

So instead, he focuses on getting you both to Bristol. Once you're there, it's different. Still Gotham, sure, but way less grime, way fewer threats.

"Baby, your biceps," you murmur dreamily, still snuggled into his side. "I wanna live here. Make me a bicep hammock. I could just... take a nap right here."

"Jesus Christ," Jason huffs, half-laughing, half-suffering.

His hand squeezes your hip hard enough to make you gasp softly, and your thighs press together instinctively, slick panties clinging to your skin.

And you know it's bad—for him, for you—because you can already feel how wet you are, panties soaked just from the feel of his hand and the size of his arm and the fact that Jason fucking Todd is all yours.

Every broad inch of him belongs to you, and you want him so badly your nipples ache, hard and sensitive, the cool night air brushing them through your top with every step.

Jason feels it too, the way your body stays glued to his, warm and soft and sweet, all that restless, needy energy radiating off you like heat. And even though his jaw stays tight, his eyes sharp and scanning for trouble, his dick is already thinking about the safety of your shared apartment, where he can fuck you in peace.

But finally, you make it into Bristol, and Jason feels like he can breathe again. Shoulders easing just slightly, the tension that's been coiled in his spine since you left the bar loosens a fraction, though he's still hyper-aware of every footstep behind you, every flickering streetlight, every passing car.

Gotham's quieter here, but it's still Gotham. And no sane person drives a cab through this shithole, especially not after dark, which is exactly why you're stuck walking home. Buses aren't much better. Either they're not running at all, or they're full of people Jason would rather not share air with, let alone a seat.

But you? You're not thinking about cabs or buses or safety at all. You're too busy scanning the sidewalks like you're searching for treasure, except the treasure you want is a dark, secluded little alley where your man can fuck you until you're crying.

And you find one.

You stop so suddenly he nearly stumbles into you, and you gasp like you just discovered the lost city of gold.

"What now, doll?" he sighs, already bracing for whatever chaos is about to spill from your pretty mouth.

Your grin is downright wicked, that playful, tipsy sparkle in your eyes as you grab his arm with both hands and start walking backwards toward the alley entrance. It's tucked behind some trendy little wine bar, barely lit, and Jason's already shaking his head, planting his feet like a stubborn brick wall.

"Baby," he warns, voice low, but you're having none of it.

"Jay," you pout, stepping back into the shadows, fingers curling around his belt to tug him with you. "Please. Pleasepleaseplease. I can't wait. I'm so fucking wet, I swear it's dripping down my thighs."

"Jesus," he mutters, but his resolve is crumbling fast, especially when you grab his wrist and guide his hand under your skirt, between your thighs, pressing his fingers against the damp lace of your panties.

Jason hisses between his teeth, jaw clenched tight as his fingertips press into the soaked fabric, feeling just how messy you already are. "Fuck, baby," he groans, fingers stroking you through the lace until you're trembling. "You really are dripping."

You nod so hard it's almost comical, hips rocking into his touch, and he curses again, pulling his hand back before he loses whatever sliver of restraint he has left.

"C'mon, Jay," you murmur, voice all sweet and syrupy as you press your body against him. "No one's here. I need you so bad."

He's so fucking weak for you. He always has been. With a low, rumbling sigh, he grabs your hips and lifts you slightly off the ground, keeping your heels from clicking against the damp pavement, his strength so effortless it makes you dizzy.

Your arms loop around his neck, lips grazing his jaw, and you whisper, "Knew you couldn't resist me."

"Yeah, yeah," he mutters, but there's already a cocky smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he carries you further into the alley.

And to both your surprise, it's not that bad. No reeking garbage, no questionable puddles, just a slightly damp brick wall and enough privacy to make this work.

Jason pins you to the wall gently, broad hands spreading your thighs, fingers curling under the hem of your skirt to bunch it up around your hips, and the cool air against your soaked panties makes you shiver.

"We're doing this fast," he murmurs, voice dark and low as he towers over you, his body heat sinking into your skin. "Then I'm carrying your ass home and fucking you proper, got it?"

You just nod, biting your lip as your hips wiggle, trying to press against him. Before you can fully grind up against him, Jason pulls you off the wall like you weigh nothing, his big hand splayed across your back, holding you up effortlessly with just one arm.

"Hold still, baby," he murmurs, though there's a flicker of fond amusement in his voice.

You cling to him, hands grabbing fistfuls of his shirt, legs dangling slightly until he sets you down just long enough to shrug out of his leather jacket. Then he drapes it over your shoulders, the worn leather heavy and warm from his body heat, swallowing you whole.

"Don't want you all scratched up," he says, fingers brushing your cheek before he lifts you up and pins you back to the wall, his body following, pressing tight against yours.

The kiss that follows is messy, almost desperate, like neither of you has any patience left, his mouth slanting over yours, tongue licking deep between your parted lips. You taste like alcohol and sweetness, like the cocktails you couldn't stop sipping, and Jason tastes like beer and heat and him.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging hard enough to make him groan against your mouth, and he rolls his hips into you, grinding his thick cock against your sopping cunt through your panties, the rough denim dragging against the soaked lace until you whimper into his mouth.

"Fuck, baby," he groans, pulling back just enough to catch his breath, forehead pressed to yours. "You're so fuckin' wet. I can feel it through my jeans."

"Then stop teasing," you pout, hips canting against him again, your thighs trembling from the sheer ache of needing him inside you.

"Oh, baby," Jason grins, all teeth, his hand sliding between you to push your panties aside, fingers dipping low to swipe through your slick folds, making you jerk. "Teasing's my favorite part."

"Jay," you whine, voice high and thin, your hips trying to chase his fingers as they stroke along your slit, purposefully avoiding your clit. "Please. Don't—don't tease, I'm so wet, I need you, please."

"Yeah?" He drags his fingers lower, tracing around your entrance, gathering up your slick, rubbing it slow over your throbbing clit until your whole body jerks again. "You need me that bad, baby?"

"Yes," you cry, voice pitchy and desperate, hands fisting in his shirt. "Need your dick, need you to fuck me, pleasepleaseplease—"

Jason hums low in his throat, eyes dark and heavy-lidded as he watches you come undone right in front of him. "Greedy little thing," he teases, rubbing slow, deliberate circles over your clit until you're trembling against him. "So fuckin' needy."

"Because you made me like this," you snap, drunk enough that you barely have a filter, every single thought spilling from your lips. "You and your stupid big dick and your stupid perfect hands and your stupid hot face—"

Jason barks a laugh, cutting you off by sinking two fingers deep into your cunt with a filthy squelch that echoes through the alley, your protests melting into a soft, helpless moan.

"There we go," he murmurs, voice low and rough as his fingers pump in and out, stretching you open, slick dripping down to coat his knuckles. "Gotta open you up, baby. You know you can't take me if I don't stretch this sweet little pussy first."

You just whimper, hips rocking down onto his hand, your fingers scrabbling at his shoulders, your drunk little brain so overwhelmed by how good his fingers feel, how deep they reach, already curling to press against that soft, spongy spot inside you.

"Always so fuckin' tight," Jason mutters, thumb circling your clit as his fingers fuck into you, slow and deliberate.

You nod frantically, too far gone to do anything else, all your focus narrowed down to the way his fingers stretch and fill you, the slick sound of it obscene in the quiet alley.

"Think you can behave if I fuck you right here?" he asks, lips brushing your ear, fingers never slowing. "Or are you gonna be a noisy little brat and get us caught?"

Jason's fingers work your cunt like it's his job, those thick digits scissoring inside you, spreading you wide, your walls clenching down hard every time he drags them out only to push them back in knuckle-deep.

You're soaked, dripping all over his hand, slick and messy and obscene, and he fucking loves it. Loves the way you always need a little stretching, loves how no matter how many times he's fucked this pussy, you still go all tight and greedy on him like you're brand new every single time.

His thumb circles your clit, slow and deliberate, just enough to keep you right on the edge of frustration, never quite enough to let you fall over, and you whine, a long, high-pitched sound that makes him smirk.

"Jay," you slur, lips dragging over his jaw, sticky and soft, your fingers clawing at his back through his shirt, hips squirming helplessly against his hand. "Want your dick, baby, please."

"Shhh," Jason hums against your mouth, voice rough, fingers still fucking into you, that relentless rhythm making your thighs shake. "I've got you, baby. Let me make you cum first, yeah? Can't have you all tight and needy like this. You'll hurt yourself tryin' to take me."

"Don't care," you pout, sucking a mark into his neck, messy and wet, your tongue flicking over the spot before you nip at it, making him grunt softly. "Wanna be full, Jay, wanna feel you stretch me out, wanna feel you fuck me so deep, baby, please—"

"Jesus," Jason mutters, but there's no heat to it, just low, throaty amusement, like he can't believe how fucking desperate you get when you're drunk and horny like this.

He shifts his hand, fingers crooking inside you just right, dragging over that spot that makes you jolt, and you whimper, thighs clenching around his waist.

"Look at you," he breathes, eyes dark and hooded as he watches your face twist in pleasure, mouth all pouty and glossy, cheeks flushed, hair sticking to your temples from how hot you've gotten. "So fucking pretty when you're like this, baby. All fucked out and desperate for me."

"Because I love you," you slur, fingers fisting in his hair, tugging him down into a kiss that's all tongue and teeth, messy and clumsy and so fucking hot he groans into it. "Love your dick, love your hands, love your stupid face—"

Jason swallows your rambling with another kiss, his fingers never stopping, his thumb rubbing tight, fast circles over your clit until you're trembling, back arching, your whole body pressing into his like you're trying to crawl inside his skin.

"C'mon, baby," he whispers against your lips, voice low and dark and sweet like sin. "Cum for me. Make a mess all over my fingers, show me how bad you want me."

You sob—a high, helpless sound—as your cunt clenches down hard, your orgasm hitting you like a fucking freight train, your hips stuttering against his hand, slick gushing over his fingers and dripping down to his wrist.

"Good girl," Jason praises, kissing you through it, swallowing every little moan and whimper as his fingers keep pumping, working you through the aftershocks until you're twitching, trying to squirm away from the overstimulation.

"Too much," you mumble, slurring against his mouth, but he just hums, grinning against your lips.

"Fuck," Jason mutters, pulling his fingers from your spent pussy, shiny and dripping, your slick coating his knuckles and glistening under the dim alley light. He holds his hand up, spreading his fingers just to watch the strings of your arousal stretch between them, his lip curling into a dark little smirk. "Look at this messy little pussy, baby. You really are my perfect fuckin' girl, aren't you?"

You whimper, squirming against the wall, thighs trembling where they wrap around his waist, and Jason's grin only widens. "Can't get enough of me, can you? Drippin' just from my fingers. Fuck, baby, I'm gonna ruin you."

"Please," you mumble, words all breathless and slurred, your glossy eyes locked on his mouth like you're starving for him. "Kiss me, Jay."

He doesn't need to be told twice—his mouth crashes into yours, hot and hungry, all tongue and teeth and filthy little moans that make your head spin. You taste like your cocktails and him, and you drink down his groans like they're your favorite liquor, your fingers threading into his hair, tugging hard just to feel him grunt against your tongue.

His kiss is messy, wet, his teeth catching your bottom lip, tugging until you whine before soothing the sting with his tongue. His hand stays firm on your ass, keeping you pinned, while his other works at his belt with practiced ease, the jingle making your pussy clench down hard around nothing. Your thighs squeeze his waist, your needy body rocking against him like you're trying to catch his dick the second it's free.

"Desperate," Jason teases, voice thick with amusement, but his own breath stutters when his jeans finally slide down just enough to let his dick spring free, hot and heavy, the flushed tip already smeared with precum.

He grunts softly as he fists himself, dragging his slick thumb over the head before he ruts against your messy cunt, grinding his cock between your folds until his length is coated in your slick, sliding so easily against your soaked, swollen clit.

"Baby," you moan, head lolling back against the brick, your eyes going half-lidded, all glassy and drunk on him. "Want you so bad. Please, Jay."

"Fuck, you're so needy," he groans, angling his hips just right so the thick head of his cock notches at your entrance, pushing in just a little, stretching you open slow. "Always so tight for me, baby. So fuckin' perfect."

You whimper, hands scrabbling at his shoulders, his back, his neck, anywhere you can hold onto as he starts to push deeper, the stretch making your mouth drop open, your eyes going wide as your cunt struggles to take him, even as slick as you are.

"Every time," Jason mutters, almost to himself, watching your face, your body, your perfect pussy swallowing him inch by inch. "Every fuckin' time this pussy fights me at first. Like you forget how big my dick is until I'm stuffin' you full again."

He doesn't even bother bottoming out at first, just fucking into you shallow and rough, enough to make your body bounce against the wall, enough to make you cry out soft and sweet with every thrust.

"Jay—" you whimper, too loud, but he slaps a big hand over your mouth, muffling you, his own jaw tight as he glares down at you.

"We're still in public, baby," he growls, punctuating his words with a particularly harsh thrust, finally bottoming out in one stroke that makes your eyes roll back. "Behave. I don't wanna spend the night in jail 'cause my girl couldn't keep her pretty mouth shut."

You whimper against his palm, nodding hard, eyes still wide and glassy, and he kisses your forehead like you're not split open on his dick in the middle of a fucking alley.

"That's my good girl," he purrs, letting his hand slide down to grip your waist, both hands anchoring you now as he starts to move.

And fuck, he moves, lifting you up like you weigh nothing, only to slam you back down onto his cock, impaling you over and over, your messy little cunt squelching loud and obscene every time he bottoms out. Your slick coats his dick, smearing down his thighs, dripping onto the pavement, and he's fucking feral for it, teeth gritted, sweat beading at his temples from how tight you are.

"Fuck, baby, this pussy's made for me," he groans, his grip bruising at your hips, his cock grinding so deep you swear you can feel him in your throat. "So fuckin' tight—so wet for me. Look at you, baby, takin' me so good. My perfect little slut."

"Yours," you slur, hands scrabbling at his shoulders, your head dropping back against the wall, throat exposed and begging for his mouth. "Love your dick, Jay. Love you. Love you so much."

"Love you too, baby," he grunts, barely coherent as your walls flutter around him, your cunt sucking him in so tight he can barely pull back without you chasing him. "Love this messy little pussy. Gonna fuck you stupid right here, doll. Gonna make you cum on my dick, and then I'm gonna stuff you full of cum. Even if it gets me arrested."

The words shoot straight to your core, making your pussy clamp down around him so sweet and snug that Jason has to grit his teeth, his hips stuttering just for a second as heat flashes down his spine.

"Fuck—just like that, baby," he breathes, voice low, vibrating against your neck. "Keep squeezin' me like that, doll, you're gonna milk me dry."

The sound of your cunt taking him is fucking obscene, a slick, messy squelch every time he pulls out, followed by a wet, filthy slap as he fucks back in, balls-deep. It echoes off the brick walls, mixing with his ragged grunts and your soft, breathless moans, and it's so fucking dirty it makes his cock twitch inside you.

His hands cup your ass, those big, strong hands lifting and spreading you, kneading your soft flesh as he works you up and down his cock like you're weightless, his fingers sinking deep enough to leave bruises tomorrow.

The sweet scent of your arousal fills his nose, thick and heady in the cool night air, and Jason can't help himself. He nuzzles into the crook of your neck, inhaling deep like he's getting high off the smell of your pussy.

"Always so fuckin' sweet for me," he murmurs against your skin.

His tongue flicks out to taste the sweat beading there before he sucks at your neck, hard and messy, leaving dark bruises like a brand. He soothes the sting with his tongue, a lazy, possessive stroke that makes you whimper and tighten your grip in his hair, tugging at the strands like you're trying to keep him exactly where he is.

He doesn't give a fuck if you pull every single strand out, doesn't give a shit if you ruin his scalp, because all that matters is the way your pussy feels—so fucking soft, so hot, clenching around him like you were made to take his dick. His thighs burn from the angle, his back sticky under his shirt, but none of it registers because all he can think about is how fucking good you feel, how perfectly you fit around him.

Jason knows, deep down, that this is fucking insane. He's not supposed to be fucking you in an alley in Bristol. Usually, he's the one talking you down when you're drunk and horny, steering you home with that cocky little grin, promising to fuck you into the mattress the second you walk through the door. But tonight, reason flew out the window the second you dragged him into the shadows, panties already soaked, begging for his dick like a needy little slut.

And fuck, how's he supposed to resist you when you look at him like that? When you sound like this? All soft, breathless little moans, spilling past your kiss-swollen lips as you clutch at him like you'll die if he stops? When your body trembles in his hands, your slick running down his balls, every ragged little breath carrying his name?

"Jason," you whisper, so soft and sweet it fucking kills him, your voice all wrecked from the way he's been fucking you open. "So big, baby. Feels so good."

"Yeah?" His voice drops, rough and husky, fingers digging into your ass just a little harder as he fucks you deeper, cock grinding against that soft spot inside you that makes you tremble all over. "This dick's yours, doll. Made to stretch this sweet little pussy. You're perfect, baby—fuck, you're perfect for me."

Your nails rake down his back, short little scrapes through his shirt that make his abs flex, and Jason growls low in his throat, biting at your neck, at your shoulder, anywhere he can sink his teeth into.

"So good, doll. So fuckin' tight. My messy little slut, all drunk and desperate for my dick. Gonna fuck you until you can't even stand, baby."

Your walls pulse around him like you're already close, your breath hitching in soft, uneven moans, and Jason groans against your skin, fucking you harder, faster, losing any semblance of control. His hips slap against yours, your slick painting his skin, his cock so soaked it glides into you with filthy ease.

"C'mon, doll," he whispers against your ear, voice dark and sweet, dripping filth like honey. "Be my good girl and cum for me, yeah? Let me feel you soak my dick. Let me ruin this pretty little pussy."

Jason's grip shifts, just slightly, and the angle hits different—deeper, somehow rougher, but the real kicker is how his hips grind up against your clit every time he bottoms out, his skin rubbing over that swollen little bundle of nerves.

It's not even intentional at first, just the natural press of his body against yours in this position, but once he hears the choked little moan you make, he fucking locks onto it like a bloodhound, making sure to grind against you every time his cock stretches you open.

Your head falls back, clunking lightly against the brick, legs tightening around his waist, pulling him in closer, deeper. "Gonna cum," you gasp, voice thin, whiny and so fucking needy Jason feels his cock twitch inside you. "Jay—gonna cum, baby, please—"

"Yeah, you are," he rasps, kissing you quick and filthy, all tongue and teeth, biting at your lower lip before pulling back to look at you, all fucked-out and perfect. "Cum on my dick, baby. Make a mess all over me."

His thrusts turn deep and shallow, grinding against your clit with every stroke, the fat head of his cock dragging over that sweet little spot inside you until your legs start to shake. Your whole body tenses, back arching off the wall as your cunt pulses around him, gushing so hard it drips down his cock, slicking up his thighs and the inside of yours, messy and obscene and so fucking good.

"Shhh, doll. You wanna get us caught?" he murmurs, right against your ear. "I'll stop. I fuckin' will. I'll pull out and leave you drippin', you keep bein' so fuckin' loud."

"OhmyfuckingGod," you gasp, the words running together into a high-pitched moan, your body trembling in his hands.

You're loud—too loud—and Jason clamps his hand over your mouth again, shushing you in that low, dangerous tone that always makes your cunt clench.

You shake your head wildly, wide, desperate eyes looking up at him, your hands clutching at his shoulders like your life depends on it. You can't stop now, you need his cum, need him to fuck it into you so deep it sticks, so deep you feel him for days.

Jason knows. Of course he knows—knows how much you love it when he pumps you full, knows how fucked-out and blissed you get when you feel him leak out of you, warm and thick and messy.

He's just about to give you what you want when—

The flash of red and blue lights paints the alley in sharp neon. You both freeze.

Jason's heart fucking stops, then kicks up so hard he can feel it in his teeth, every muscle in his body going taut like a wire ready to snap. Your eyes go wide, mouth opening in a silent gasp, fingers digging into his back hard enough to leave crescent marks through his shirt.

"Shhh, baby," he whispers again, this time more soothing than stern, his hand smoothing over your hip like that's gonna calm either of you down. "If you're quiet, they're not even gonna know we're here."

You nod fast, lip caught between your teeth, eyes darting to the mouth of the alley where the cop car slows, brake lights flaring red through the shadows.

Jason's heart pounds, his cock still buried balls-deep in your cunt, and this might actually be the stupidest, most reckless shit he's ever done—which is really saying something, considering his track record.

The car idles there for a beat too long, and you start to panic for real, breath coming too fast, your fingers clutching at him, but Jason dips down, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, his voice low and calm.

"Hey. It's okay, baby. They're just bored. Ain't got shit to do out here. They'll move."

And they do, after what feels like a fucking lifetime, the car finally rolls past the alley, the glow of the lights fading into the night.

"See, baby? Told you. We're good."

He grins, kissing you again, slow and sweet at first, until you wrap your arms around his neck and pull him deeper, the kiss turning sloppy and filthy all over again. Tongues sliding together, your moans humming right into his mouth, his cock twitching inside you.

"Now," Jason mutters between kisses, "where the fuck were we?"

He starts moving again, lifting you in his arms like you weigh nothing, slamming you back down onto his cock, the force of it making your whole body bounce, your slick cunt taking him so easy now after you came all over him.

Jason fucks you hard, not fast, not hurried, but with deep, brutal strokes, splitting you open every time, grinding against your clit at the end of each thrust until your breath stutters and your eyes flutter shut, head lolling back against the wall.

"Fuck, baby," Jason groans, forehead pressed to yours, his breath ragged, hands locked around your waist, holding you tight like you might slip through his fingers. "You're so fuckin' tight. You feel that, doll? Feel how perfect this little pussy fits around my dick?"

You moan, soft and breathless, nails raking down his back, and Jason fucking loves it. Loves how wild you get for him, how no matter how many times he's fucked you, you're still so damn tight around him.

"Love this pussy, baby," he mutters, voice thick and low, "love ruinin' you. My messy little slut, all drunk and dripping for me. Fuckin' perfect."

He can't stop kissing you, can't stop tasting your lips, your tongue, the little whimpers you feed him between kisses, his hips never slowing, driving into you over and over, fucking you so deep you swear you can feel him in your throat.

He knows you need to get the fuck out of here before the cops come back, before some nosey old lady comes out of that wine bar and catches you. But your pussy's too good, too sweet and snug, and if he doesn't cum soon, he might actually lose his mind.

Jason's pace shifts—rougher now, driven by that primal need to fill you up, to mark you inside and out, to make sure no one could even think about touching you after this. His thrusts slam into you with brutal precision, the thick length of his cock dragging along every slick, swollen inch of your cunt, stretching you wide around him, splitting you open over and over until your pussy feels raw and tender and so fucking full it's like you can't take a breath without feeling him buried deep inside you.

He knows you can feel every vein, every ridge, the blunt head of his cock grinding right against your cervix, and fuck, you're so wet—dripping all over him, down his thighs, pooling between you, every thrust making a filthy squelch echo down the alley. If anyone walked past right now, there wouldn't be a doubt what's happening here.

Not with the way your slick coats his cock, makes every thrust slippery and obscene, not with the way your breathy little moans hitch every time he bottoms out, not with the way his hips slap against yours, skin sticky with sweat and arousal.

Your thoughts are a fucking mess, the only things running through your drunk, fucked-out brain are Jason, dick, cum, more. You can't think past the way his cock stretches you, how perfect it feels to be pinned up like this, taken apart by him like you're nothing but a toy, his strong arms the only thing keeping you up. You swear you can feel him everywhere, like he's inside your bones, like the next time you take a step you'll still feel the heavy weight of him between your legs.

He kisses you again, messy and desperate, tongues sliding together, teeth clashing, spit slicking up your chin, but neither of you give a fuck. Your fingers knot in his hair, tugging hard enough to make him grunt into your mouth, and he swears he could cum from just this. From the taste of you, the feel of your cunt pulsing around him, the soft little whimpers you spill into his mouth every time his cock hits that sweet spot.

"Fuck, baby," he rasps, forehead pressed to yours, sweat beading at his temple, "this pussy's so fuckin' messy. So fuckin' tight. Can barely move, you're clenching so hard. You gonna cum again for me, doll? Gonna make a mess all over my dick?"

You nod, whining, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes because it's too much—too good, too deep, too full—but you don't want him to stop. "Please, Jay—wanna cum with you, wanna feel you fill me up."

"Yeah?" His thrusts speed up, hips snapping into you hard and fast, dragging you down onto him like a ragdoll. "Wanna feel me cum inside this needy little pussy? Stuff you so full it leaks out of you? You fuckin' love it, don't you?"

You whimper, nails biting into his skin, legs tightening around his waist, and you're so fucking close, right on the edge, your whole body buzzing, heat coiling low in your belly, until one perfect grind of his cock against your clit sends you over, your cunt fluttering around him, sucking him in so deep.

"Ohmygodohmygodohmygod," you chant, head falling back against the wall, eyes rolling back, body shaking in his grip as you gush all over him, slick dripping down his cock, onto the pavement, messy and obscene.

"Fuck—there you go, baby. Fuckin' soak me," Jason groans, his rhythm stuttering, hips jerking, grip bruising around your waist. "That's my good fuckin' girl."

And then he's right behind you, cock throbbing, thick ropes of cum spilling into you, hot and heavy, pumping against your cervix until you can feel it everywhere, until you swear it's gonna leak out of your mouth.

His head drops to your shoulder, mouth open against your skin, breath ragged as his hips keep moving, slow, deep thrusts fucking his cum deeper into you, even though it's already dripping down his dick, slicking up your inner thighs.

But he's not done—not yet.

You barely catch your breath before he starts moving again, overstimulated and tender, but his dick's still hard, still hungry, and he loves you like this. Drunk on him, too dumb to think about anything except the way he fills you up, the way he uses you like his personal fucktoy.

"Jason," you slur, clinging to him, nails digging into his scalp, his back, anywhere you can reach, "too much—too much—"

"You can take it, baby," he purrs, kissing you again, softer now, but still deep, still filthy. "Know you can take it for me. One more, yeah? Be my good girl."

And fuck, of course you're his good girl. Of course you'll give him one more.

He pounds into you harder, faster, sloppy and desperate, the sound of skin on skin mixing with the wet squelch of your cunt, the sweet scent of your arousal thick in the air, his nose buried in your neck, sucking messy bruises into your skin as his fingers grip your ass, kneading and spreading you, watching the way his cock disappears inside you over and over again.

Your thoughts are gone, totally fucked out, only able to focus on the way he fills you, the way his cum squelches out around his cock every time he thrusts back in.

And Jason? Jason's fucking feral, eyes locked on the sight of his cock splitting you open, cunt so swollen and puffy, all slicked up with both of you, and all he can think about is how fucking perfect you are.

"Look at you, baby," he whispers, voice low and reverent, fingers sliding between your bodies to rub your clit, even though you're already so sensitive you're trembling. "My perfect little pussy. Made to take me. Made to get fucked dumb, stuffed full of my cum. My sweet girl."

And that's all it takes, one more twist of his fingers, one more deep thrust, and you're cumming again, body jerking in his hands, cunt milking him for every last drop.

Jason kisses you through it, drinking down your whimpers, your soft little cries, soothing you with his tongue even as his hips finally slow, his cock still thick and heavy inside you, keeping every messy drop right where it belongs.

"Good girl," he breathes against your lips, forehead resting against yours, hands smoothing over your hips, "my perfect, messy girl."

Your body is deadweight in his arms, completely boneless and blissed out, every limb heavy with exhaustion and the sweet, drugged haze of post-fuck bliss. You're still trembling, but not just from the aftershocks. The cool night air prickles at your exposed skin, goosebumps pebbling over your arms, your thighs, the still-damp mess between your legs.

Jason feels it immediately, the way your soft, bare skin shivers against his, and it sends a twist of guilt through his gut—fucking you into a fucking alley like some horny teenager. But truth be told, it was your idea.

But before he can even say anything, your hands cup his face, small fingers curled around the rough edges of his jaw, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones, and you kiss him. It's slow this time—messy, sure, still tasting like beer and sweat and something sweet that's all you—but it lingers, softer, deeper, your tongue curling into his mouth, tracing along his teeth, savoring him like you need to commit the taste of him to memory.

You're still trembling, but the heat between your bodies eases it just a little, your fingers combing through his damp hair, nails scratching lightly at his scalp as you melt into him, the kiss lasting long enough that his dick gives a lazy twitch inside you again, still hard even after he just filled you to the brim.

Finally, you pull back, lips red and swollen, your face glowing with the kind of fucked-out bliss that makes his chest ache with pride.

He smirks down at you, brushing a strand of hair off your face as he mutters, "You're fuckin' insane, pretty girl."

You giggle, that sweet little drunken giggle that makes his cock twitch again, and your head tilts back against the wall. "I thought I was gonna die without your dick, baby."

He groans, shaking his head, but there's no real exasperation there, just affection under the rasp of his voice. "Yeah, like I said. Fuckin' insane."

But you're already nuzzling into his neck, soft lips brushing his skin, your breath warm and sleepy against his throat. You smell like sweat and sex, all wrapped up in that sweet scent that's all you, and his arms tighten around you without thinking.

His lips press to the side of your head, lingering there as he murmurs, "C'mon, we need to get you home, yeah?"

You pout, face still buried in his neck. "Can't move. 'M tired. And cold."

"I know, baby," he soothes, one big hand rubbing slow circles on your back. "I know. I'll carry you."

You scoff weakly, lifting your head just enough to squint up at him. "We're far from home."

"So?" he shrugs, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Don't act like you weigh a ton of fuckin' bricks."

You giggle again, arms going slack around his neck as you settle more comfortably into his hold, cheek squished against his shoulder. Jason's hands ease under your thighs, holding you up as gently as he can while he slowly pulls out, your slick warmth clinging to his cock, your messy cunt fluttering around nothing as his cum immediately starts to drip down.

You whimper softly at the loss, fingers curling into his shirt, but before you can complain, he's already reaching down, sliding your panties back up over your swollen cunt. Not to keep you modest—no, that ship sailed about four orgasms ago—but just to keep as much of his cum inside you as possible. He watches the way the lace darkens immediately, soaked through from the mess he made of you, and his cock twitches again in the cool air.

He sets you down carefully, but your knees buckle instantly, legs still shaking too hard to hold you up. "Jesus, baby," he chuckles, steadying you with one arm as he tucks his cock back into his jeans, adjusting them like he didn't just ruin you against an alley wall. "Gonna have to work on your stamina."

"Don't be mean," you pout, swaying a little as he smooths your skirt back down over your thighs, not that it covers much, but at least it's an attempt at decency.

Then he grabs his jacket from your shoulders, wrapping it around you properly this time, tugging your arms through the sleeves before zipping it all the way up. It's way too big, swallowing your smaller frame whole, and the sight makes him laugh. Your fucked-out face peeks up at him from inside the oversized jacket, makeup smeared, mascara smudged under your eyes, lips still swollen and shiny with spit and his kisses.

You pout harder at his laugh, but it only makes him grin wider. "Shut up."

"Never," he says, scooping you back into his arms like you weigh nothing at all. You try to protest weakly, but he shushes you, pressing a kiss to your temple. "Just let me take care of you, baby. Bet those pretty little feet already hurt in those heels."

And you can't even argue because he's fucking right, and honestly? Being carried sounds pretty nice right now.

Jason's grip adjusts as he walks, arms cradling you tighter to his chest, your body boneless and pliant in his hold. You're so out of it, head resting against his shoulder, lips slightly parted, soft breath warming his skin every few seconds. His jacket drowns you, the sleeves hanging past your hands, and he can feel the damp heat between your thighs seeping into the fabric where you're curled against him.

You're a mess, hair sticking to your forehead, skin sticky with sweat, makeup smudged in every direction, and his cum still leaking slowly down your thigh, leaving shiny streaks against your skin. But fuck if you aren't the prettiest thing he's ever seen.

He carries you easily, years of strength training making your weight feel like nothing. His feet move on autopilot, familiar with the route home, but his mind? That's a fucking mess.

Because Jason Todd doesn't do this. Doesn't fuck his girl drunk in a dirty alley with the risk of cops busting them. He's the one who's usually dragging your ass home before you get yourself into trouble, lecturing you about safety, tucking you into bed with water and painkillers. But tonight?

Tonight you begged so sweetly, moaned so filthy, kissed him so needy that all his common sense evaporated. And now he's here, hauling your wrecked body home, knowing you're gonna be sore as hell tomorrow—all his fault. And he can't even bring himself to regret it.

The door creaks softly when he shoulders it open, the apartment dim and quiet, and by the time he crosses the threshold, you're completely asleep against him. Your breath is soft and steady, face smushed into his neck, lips still a little wet from those sloppy kisses you couldn't stop giving him.

He sighs, kissing the top of your head before carrying you straight to the bathroom, flicking the light on with his elbow. The bright light makes you stir, a soft whimper leaving your throat, but you don't wake until he starts peppering little kisses across your face. Your nose first, then your forehead, then your cheeks, until your lashes flutter, and you blink up at him, all confused and sleepy and perfect.

"We're home, baby," he murmurs, voice soft.

You look around, eyes squinting at the light, brow furrowing as you take in the bathroom. "Huh?"

It's so adorably confused, so genuine, that Jason can't help but laugh.

"Yeah, doll," he grins, setting you down on wobbly feet. "We made it."

You sway a little, legs still weak, and he steadies you with one hand while the other shrugs his jacket off your shoulders, tossing it over the counter. Then he sinks to his knees, big hands cupping your ankles as he carefully unbuckles your heels, sliding them off one by one.

His palms rub over your skin, easing the ache, and he leans in to press a kiss to your calf before standing again. "Feet hurt?"

You nod sleepily, arms looping lazily around his neck, and he smiles. "Told you."

He gets the water running, warm but not too hot, and undresses you like you're made of glass, peeling the sweat-damp top and skirt from your skin, sliding your panties down those shaky legs, until you're bare and glowing under the bright bathroom light.

His own clothes come off fast, jeans and t-shirt kicked into the corner, and then he's guiding you under the spray, his big body crowding in behind you, keeping you steady.

You whine, soft and pitiful, as the water hits your oversensitive skin. "So tired," you mumble, cheek pressed to his chest.

"I know, baby," he soothes, hands moving quickly—gentle but efficient, washing away your makeup, the sweat and cum and alley grime, fingers gliding between your legs, over your thighs, along your back.

Every protest, every sleepy complaint, gets kissed away—a kiss to your shoulder, your temple, your lips. By the time he's rinsed you off, you're barely awake, your body slumping against him as he wraps you in a towel and carries you straight to bed.

You hit the mattress face-first, towel half hanging off, and you're out like a light in under five seconds.

Jason watches you for a second, shaking his head with a fond smile. "Hopeless."

He tries—he really does—to dress you at least in one of his shirts, but you don't even budge, and honestly? If you wanna sleep naked, who the fuck is he to stop you? Less work for him in the morning. He tosses the towels back into the bathroom, pulls on a pair of boxers, and slides into bed beside you.

The second his body heat hits you, you roll into him, face pressed to his chest, soft thigh hitching over his hip like you can't stand to have any space between you. His arm curls around your waist automatically, palm sliding up the curve of your ass, along your back, tracing lazy patterns across your bare skin.

He's still thinking about you, about tonight, about how the fuck you've got him wrapped around your little finger so tightly that one pout can ruin every ounce of self-control he's got. And it should piss him off. Should make him wanna teach you a lesson. But instead, it just makes him want to ruin you again, until you forget your own fucking name.

"Insane," he mutters into your hair, mouth curling into a grin.

But you're his insane, and that's all that fucking matters.

[jade-curtiss]

Apparently a microcelebrity got into wanting to appeal to a crowd while knowing they could still eat in the palm of those alienating the aforementioned crowd when that doesn't work. Many awkward generalizations and snippets of isolated events ensues. Apparently it's hard, but, it's exploitable and has entertainment value, so...