#and he likes them too but he would NEVER admit it

[ariichive]

JEALOUSY☆゜・。。・゜゜・。。・゜★

jealous scenarios ft. phainon, anaxa, and mydei!

gen. neutral reader

cw: anaxa is kinda crazy he puts his gun to reader, possessiveness, mentions of violence, fluff, not proofread im so tired :')

☆゜・。。・゜゜・。。・゜★

phainon

phainon was one to pride himself on his natural charm, he was a very easy going guy. the stark contrast between him in battle and off was admirable.

though as much as he hates to admit it, sometimes the warrior takes over his instincts. for instance, right now as he watched the droma’s caretaker openly flirt with you.

it wasn’t just the flirting—though that was annoying enough—it was the way you laughed, the way your eyes softened, the way you didn’t immediately pull away. phainon knew you weren’t his, not in the way that would justify this sudden surge of possessiveness. but logic had never been good at taming instinct.

his fingers twitched at his side, an old habit from years of battle. the part of him that thrived in combat, the part that didn’t hesitate when faced with a challenge, whispered at him to act. it would be so easy to step in, to slide an arm around your waist, to make it clear to everyone in the room—especially to the man standing too close—that you weren’t available.

but that wasn’t his place. not yet, at least. so instead, he forced himself to take a breath, to unclench his fists, to remind himself that he was phainon—charming, laid-back, not the type to pick a fight over something so trivial.

“phainon, this one likes me!”

his stoic expression softened when he realized, in fact, you were talking about the loving dromas and not that man.

phainon smiled gently at your joy, “i can tell, he sure does like you a lot!”

there was a certain edge to his voice that could’ve been missed by onlookers. you gave him a concerned glance, one which he smiled at and didn’t question further.

and yet, when the caretaker let out another laugh, explaining the most basic knowledge of dromas ever, his hand brushing against yours, phainon found himself smiling again. it wasn’t a friendly smile.

“having fun?” he asked, voice smooth but carrying an edge beneath it as he finally approached the two of you.

“yeah—!” you were quick to respond only to look up at phainon and realize his attention wasn’t on you. “phainon..”

“yes my lovely spouse, who i treasure more than any riches and i’d also kill for?” now his attention was focused on you, his smile bittersweet.

the thing with phainon is whenever he looked at you, there was always such intensity.

“don’t start, i’m okay i promise.”

there was a joking tilt to your voice, but it was enough to calm him down.

“now, come over and feed the dromas with me! this one’s name is castor, very sweet we should take him home!”

phainon let out a dramatic sigh, placing a hand over his heart. "my love, as much as i would adore bringing castor home, i fear he would not fit through our door."

you laughed, reaching out to pet the dromas, who nuzzled into your touch affectionately. "we could make it work," you teased, "build a bigger door, you're strong enough. or, you know, just let him live in our backyard."

phainon hummed in thought, stepping closer until he was right beside you. "tempting," he mused, reaching out to pet castor. "but then i’d have to compete for your affection, and i don’t think my heart could take it."

you rolled your eyes, nudging him playfully. "oh, please. you already know you’re my favorite."

his grin softened into something more genuine, his blue eyes filled with something tender. "good. because my dearest, you are mine." phainon swears the dromas narrowed its eyes at him (the caretaker did too but phainon was too busy enjoying the memoment with you to get mad all over again).

you burst into laughter as the dromas let out a soft sound, clearly pleased with itself. "maybe if you were as cute as them, you’d stand a chance."

phainon clutched his chest. "wounded. utterly wounded."

but despite his theatrics, he leaned in closer, his hand brushing against yours as you both continued to feed the dromas together, the warmth between you as steady as ever.

...

"y'know, maybe it wouldn't be such a bad idea to take one home, then we wouldn't have to come back here. i can't believe that vile man had the nerve to even look at you..!"

"phainon, my dear, we are not actually going to take one home."

"...i like the name kevin, wouldn't you agree, [name]?"

the rest of the day was spent with phainon in your ear.

☆゜・。。・゜゜・。。・゜★

anaxa

the carefully crafted lunched in your hands was the least of your worries as a soft click was heard from behind you followed by a pressure being applied to the back of your head.

just to think; you went out of your way to bring lunch to your oh-so-kind boyfriend and this is how he greets you?

you would say you're surprised but... this isn't the first time something like this has happened.

"do tell me, what's the foul mood for now?"

he didn't appreciate the snarky comment as the gun pushed against your head even more.

"my [name], you seemed to enjoy yourself outside with that man. would i be correct to assume so?"

so this is what he's mad about.

you exhaled slowly, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. "if you must know, i was just making conversation. you know, something normal people do?"

the gun pressed harder against your skull in response, the warning clear. anaxa hated being mocked.

"careful," he murmured, voice quieter now, more dangerous. "i'm already being generous by allowing you to explain yourself. do not test my patience."

you tilted your head slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse of him from the corner of your eye. his expression was unreadable, but his grip on the gun was steady—too steady.

"allowing me to explain myself?" you echoed, amusement creeping into your tone. "and here i thought my oh-so-loving boyfriend would trust me a little more by now."

anaxa exhaled sharply through his nose, but he said nothing. the silence stretched between you for a few moments before the pressure at the back of your head finally disappeared.

anaxa let out a low hum, his voice smooth yet laced with something sharp—jealousy, possessiveness, something only he could wield so effortlessly. "you know how i feel about you entertaining the company of other men," he said, tilting his head slightly. "and yet, there you were, laughing as if you had no care in the world."

you sigh, "i promise you it was a very brief interaction. i even told him i was visiting you for lunch."

anaxa looked away in faux annoyance as he gently took the lunch from your hands.

"thank you, [name]." anaxa was genuine in his thanks, he understood how troublesome it could be to reach him in the grove of epiphany.

you rolled your eyes, crossing your arms. "i'd say 'you're welcome,' but i'm not sure you deserve it after that stunt."

he sighed dramatically, setting the lunch down on his desk before taking a seat. his movements were as measured as ever, graceful even in something as simple as this. "you wound me, truly," he drawled, undoing the buttons of his cuffs and rolling his sleeves up. "but i suppose my cruelty knows no bounds, does it? threatening my beloved over something as insignificant as a passing interaction."

"so you admit it was ridiculous?" you quirked a brow, leaning against the edge of his desk.

anaxa leaned back slightly in his chair, watching you with a gaze so heavy it felt like an unseen weight pressing against you. "i admit nothing," he corrected, voice as smooth as ever. "but even the most brilliant minds are prone to… lapses in judgment."

you let out a small scoff, shaking your head. "right. 'lapses in judgment.' is that what we're calling your absurd jealousy now?"

he exhaled through his nose, as if considering your words, before finally opening the meal you had brought him. "call it whatever you like, my dear," he said idly, plucking a piece of food with deliberate ease. "but tell me, if i were to flirt so freely with another, would you be so composed?"

your mouth opened, but the words died on your tongue. anaxa watched your hesitation with something akin to satisfaction, his smirk deepening ever so slightly.

"i thought as much," he said smoothly, taking a slow, deliberate bite of his food. "jealousy, my dear, is a universal affliction. i am simply more… expressive about mine."

you huffed, looking away, but the warmth in your cheeks betrayed you. "you're insufferable and lucky i have the patience for you," you muttered.

he let out a soft chuckle, low and indulgent. "patience," he mused, reaching out to brush a gloved finger against your cheek, slow and deliberate. "such a rare and commendable virtue. though i must wonder..."

his touch trailed lower, tracing the curve of your jaw before finally resting under your chin. with the lightest pressure, he tilted your face ever so slightly upward, forcing you to hold his gaze.

"how much longer will that patience last, i wonder?"

you swallowed, refusing to look away. "depends," you said, barely above a breath. "how many more times do you plan on pulling a gun on me?"

anaxa’s lips curled into the faintest smirk, but his eyes flickered with something softer—something dangerously close to fondness.

"ah," he sighed dramatically, finally releasing you and leaning back into his chair. "a fair question. but, my dear, you wound me. surely you know by now that i only threaten the things i cannot bear to lose?"

you stared at him, feeling both shocked and flustered.

you huffed, shaking your head as you finally relented, letting the conversation settle into something resembling peace. and despite everything—despite his absurd possessiveness, his impossible nature, his maddeningly smug demeanor—you couldn’t bring yourself to pull away.

because somehow, against all logic, against every ounce of reason—anaxa was yours. and that was something even he, with all his sharp words and sharper wit, could never deny.

☆゜・。。・゜゜・。。・゜★

mydei

mydei always found himself in petty competitions with phainon. whether it was who could pick the most apples to who could slay the most enemies, phainon always knew how to push his buttons.

though he might’ve pushed them a little too far..

“afraid you’ll lose? i would’ve never guessed that the great mydeimos was scared of talking to a girl. or are you scared [name] will end up liking me more?”

“deliverer,” mydei said with a scary amount of joy in his voice, “tell me, do you enjoy being humiliated by a kremnoan heir?”

“so is it a deal?”

“if that’s what you wish to call it, we’ll start now. try not to make an utter fool out of yourself. you won't even be able to touch them."

there was absolutely no way mydei was going to even let phainon breathe the same air as you.

phainon grinned, entirely unfazed by mydei’s sharp tone. “oh? possessive already? my, my, what will [name] think of this? surely they've noticed your crush on them by now.”

mydei exhaled through his nose, crossing his arms. “they will think nothing of it because you will not get the opportunity to so much as look at them.”

phainon laughed, tilting his head with an almost lazy confidence. “bold words. i wonder if you’ll still be saying that once they’re hanging off my arm instead.”

the barely restrained fury in mydei’s eyes was almost comical. “you delude yourself.”

“and you’re stalling.” phainon shrugged, already turning on his heel. “come now, mydeimos. unless, of course, you are afraid?”

mydei scoffed, stepping forward with an air of unwavering confidence. “i fear nothing—least of all a fool with an overinflated ego.”

the competition had begun.

mydei was the first to find you. he's always remembered the places you often frequented, the bathhouse being common among them.

mydei found you tucked away in one of the quieter corners of the bathhouse, steam curling through the air in delicate wisps. he approached silently, his footsteps barely making a sound against the stone floor.

he had always been observant—perhaps more than you'd realized. no matter how much time passed, he never forgot the places you sought comfort in.

"i thought i'd find you here," he murmured, his voice low and steady, cutting through the gentle trickle of water. "it's peaceful here," you said softly, returning your gaze to the water, watching a rubber duck float by.

after a long moment, you glanced at him, the tension in your chest easing just a little.

"you always find me."

mydei's crimson eyes softened, a rare hint of fondness breaking through his composed exterior.

"of course," he said quietly. "you're worth finding."

mydei had a huge advantage over phainon; everything that came out of his mouth was genuine.

you felt your body heat amplifying from his intense gaze, the steam from the bath worsening your situation.

the air between you two felt thick with unspoken words, the steam in the room only adding to the intensity. mydei’s crimson eyes were locked onto you with an unwavering focus, as if trying to read something deeper than just your expressions.

“you know, you really don’t make this easy,” you muttered, trying to divert your thoughts, the heat rising in your chest feeling like it might burst through your skin.

he raised an eyebrow, his gaze never leaving yours. "make what easy?"

you shifted uncomfortably, the faintest of blush creeping onto your cheeks. “this... this tension.”

mydei tilted his head slightly, the smallest of smirks tugging at the corner of his mouth. “tension?” he repeated, his voice smooth and calculated. “i’m simply speaking the truth.”

you shot him a glance, his words echoing in your mind. you’re worth finding.

it wasn’t like you hadn’t heard him say such things before, but this time, it felt different. There was no teasing, no veiled sarcasm—just the raw sincerity that mydei rarely offered.

“you never do anything half-heartedly, do you?” you said, a small sigh escaping your lips.

mydei didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he stepped closer, his presence looming like a silent promise. His gaze softened as he spoke, but there was still a quiet intensity behind it.

"only when it’s worth it," he said, his voice almost a whisper, but it still hit you like a wave.

your heart skipped a beat, and for a moment, you forgot how to breathe.

he moment hung between you two, the weight of his words settling deep within you. mydei’s presence was suffocating in the best way—an intensity that seemed to radiate from him, the kind that made it impossible to think of anything else but him.

you opened your mouth, but the words stuck. something about his steady gaze and the closeness between you left you speechless, your heart thudding in your chest.

“mydei…” you whispered, almost as if testing the air, "would you like to join me in the bath? i'm sue it'll help relieve any sores you might have?"

mydei's gaze flickered to you, and for a brief moment, the quiet intensity in his eyes softened, replaced by a curious, almost amused glint. he took a step closer, the space between you two shrinking even more.

“you offer me company in the bath?” he asked, his voice holding a hint of surprise. “how… bold.”

you could hear the teasing undertone in his words, but it wasn’t as biting as usual. there was something more… tender in the way he spoke, something that made your heart flutter despite the calmness of the moment.

“i only thought it might help you relax,” you replied, keeping your tone light, though your pulse quickened slightly under his steady gaze. “and you’re always so tense. even the crown prince needs to rest now and then.”

mydei let out a quiet chuckle at that, the sound warm and soft, like the fleeting warmth of the bath. "i’m afraid i’ve never had much time for relaxation," he murmured, his tone shifting again, darker, but with an edge of something more vulnerable. "but perhaps you’re right. it’s been... a long time since i allowed myself the luxury."

there was a pause, and you could see the weight of his words settle over him, like he’d just made a decision. his eyes softened, and he took another step closer, his fingers brushing against your wrist as he gently took your hand.

"then, i’ll join you. for once, perhaps i could allow myself this."

as mydei settled comfortably next to you in the bath, he couldn't help but wonder where phainon had been all this time.

and there was a small voice in the back of his head, saying 'if phainon found you first, would you have invited him into the bath with you?'

he glanced sideways at you, his gaze unreadable for a brief moment as he tried to suppress the discomfort he felt at the idea.

as he took in your relaxed face, mydei realized how important such moments were to the two of you. this was just the start of many more scenarios he would spend with you.

if you enjoyed please consider following/liking/reblogging :)

i just love the idea of unhinged anaxa

[luv-lock]

ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤA GENTLEMANㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : Robin Damian Wayne x Fem Reader

☆⁠ HEADCANON : When he have a puppy crush (obsession).

☆⁠ NOTES : Teenagers in love. English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

Damian had always been certain of one thing: he was superior to everyone around him. But when it came to you, something shifted in him. He didn’t understand it at first—it was something unfamiliar, something that made his heart race in ways that made him deeply uncomfortable. He would never admit it, of course, but there was no denying the way his eyes lingered on you when you weren’t looking.

From the moment he noticed you in class, you were a source of obsession. Not just because you were incredibly intelligent—far more than most people gave you credit for—but because you were different. You weren’t intimidated by him like everyone else. You didn’t flinch when he looked at you with his piercing eyes, and worst of all, you were kind to him. You smiled at him, genuinely, and asked him how his day was when no one else did.

At first, Damian didn't know how to process it. He hated how much he cared about what you thought. He hated how his chest tightened whenever he saw you laughing with friends or when your eyes briefly met his from across the room. He couldn't help but become... protective. Territorial, even.

His obsession grew, but it wasn’t obvious to you. To you, he was just the enigmatic, brooding boy who sat at the back of the class and barely spoke. To everyone else, he was the unsmiling prodigy who made the rest of Gotham's elite children seem inferior. But to him, you were different. You weren't afraid to speak to him, to challenge him, even when you didn't know his full story.

He’d sneak glances at you when you weren’t paying attention, his gaze lingering for just a second too long. When you walked into a room, his eyes would immediately track your every movement. He didn’t mean for it to happen, but every time you laughed—whether it was at something funny or just something absurd—his heart would pound. Every soft word you spoke, every time you brushed your hair behind your ear, or when you studied so intently in class, it drove him wild. He felt... protective. Possessive, even. But mostly, he felt a desperate need to be the one you relied on, the one you turned to.

He never had a normal crush before. His emotions were all twisted up, almost like he was terrified of it, yet drawn to it. His pride kept him from ever admitting how much he cared, but his actions always betrayed him. If anyone made the mistake of speaking to you for too long, or worse, making you laugh too much, they’d feel the weight of his glare. He didn’t trust anyone around you, didn’t trust that they wouldn’t hurt you, use you, break you like so many others had tried with him.

If you ever had a problem, Damian would be the first to solve it. He didn’t need to be asked. He noticed the little things about you—the way you tapped your pencil when you were nervous, the way you’d tug at your sleeves when you were stressed. He memorized them all, cataloging each detail like an obsessed detective, all while maintaining that cold, stoic expression. But if you ever needed help, even just to ask for notes from a missed class, his voice would become so soft, so eager to please, that it would catch you off guard.

But he was never obvious. If you ever mentioned something in passing, a book you liked or a subject you were interested in, Damian would get it for you. It wasn’t that he thought you needed him—it was that he needed you to need him. He wanted to be the one you thought of when you needed something, even if he didn’t let you know just how far he would go for you.

He’d never say it out loud, but when you laughed at one of his rare jokes or smiled when he helped you with something, it felt like the whole world was aligned. The idea of you wanting him, of you seeing him as something more than just the brooding, serious boy who sat in the back of class, became his driving force. He’d stalk your social media in the dead of night, not to look for anything inappropriate, but just to see you—see your face, your thoughts, the things you liked.

Sometimes he’d catch himself imagining what it would be like to kiss you, to be the one who could make you smile when no one else could. He’d catch himself thinking about how he would protect you—how, in his mind, no one else was worthy of you. You were his. He’d never let anyone else take you from him.

If you ever caught him staring at you—caught him in one of his moments of weakness—he’d look away, almost defensively, as though nothing had ever happened. But deep down, Damian couldn’t hide the feeling that grew every time you were around. A feeling that, for the first time, made him question what it meant to be truly vulnerable.

You were his weakness. But that was something he could never let anyone see.

As time passed, Damian’s obsession with you only deepened, but so did his longing for your attention. His pride and sense of superiority might’ve prevented him from being straightforward, but that didn’t stop him from showing his affection in subtle ways. Every once in a while, when you weren’t looking, he’d steal a quick glance at you, his eyes softening, as if savoring the moments when you were close.

It was the small things that made his heart race—like when you’d accidentally brush his hand as you passed him a pencil or when you’d ask him for help on a particularly difficult assignment. The way your voice sounded when you said his name, the way your eyes sparkled when you were excited about something—Damian didn’t even realize how much it was affecting him until it was too late.

One day, during lunch, you walked up to him at his usual spot by the wall, the one he always sat at, trying to be as unnoticed as possible. “Hey, Damian,” you said, a little shy, “can I borrow your notes from last week’s class?”

Damian looked up at you, and for a moment, his breath caught in his throat. The way your hair fell over your shoulder, the way your eyes sparkled under the soft glow of the cafeteria lights—it was almost too much for him to handle. He had to force himself not to let his emotions show.

Without a word, he handed you his notebook, his fingers brushing against yours for just a second. He didn’t pull away, though—he lingered, just a little longer than necessary. His eyes met yours, and for the first time in ages, a flicker of warmth passed across his usual cold, calculating gaze. He couldn’t help the small, almost imperceptible smile that tugged at the corner of his lips.

“You… You’re welcome,” he muttered, trying to sound aloof. But there was an underlying softness in his tone, something you hadn’t heard before. It was the way he said it—like he was pleased to help you, like you mattered to him more than anyone else in that moment.

You smiled at him, making his heart stutter in his chest. It wasn’t a big smile, just a small, genuine curve of your lips, but to Damian, it was everything. It felt like the world had shifted into place.

“Thanks, Damian. You’re a lifesaver,” you said, eyes lighting up with appreciation.

His chest tightened. “It’s nothing,” he replied quickly, not wanting to sound too eager, but his voice faltered just a bit.

You turned to leave, and as you walked away, you glanced back once, catching his eyes before he quickly looked away, face flushed. The moment he was sure you couldn’t see, he exhaled, the softest, happiest sigh escaping his lips. You’d never know it, but he had a soft spot for you—a part of him that didn’t want to be so cold and distant. A part of him that wanted to just be… normal for once.

From then on, he found himself watching you more than he should. Sometimes, he’d catch you looking at him, and he’d quickly avert his eyes, pretending like he hadn’t been staring. His heart would beat faster in his chest, and it almost made him angry that you could have this effect on him. But then, just as quickly, he’d find himself grinning, not able to help it. It was you—you made him feel things he hadn’t felt before.

It became a little routine: he’d see you in the halls, and sometimes, if you needed help with something, he’d find a way to be there. He’d stand a little too close to you when you talked, but it was never in a way that made you uncomfortable—it was more like he just wanted to be near you. He never told you why, of course.

One afternoon, while you were studying in the library, he walked in, glancing around until he spotted you, sitting by the window, scribbling away in your notebook. His heart skipped a beat when he saw you like that—so focused, so determined. You looked so… cute.

He hesitated for a second before walking up to you, his usual confident stride faltering just slightly. “Do you need any help?” he asked, trying to sound casual, though the nervous energy was palpable in his voice.

You looked up, surprised to see him standing there. “Oh, Damian! Um… yeah, I could use some help with this math problem,” you said, motioning to the page in front of you.

Damian sat down next to you, closer than necessary. His heart pounded as he explained the problem to you, his hand occasionally brushing yours as he pointed to different equations. He tried not to notice how his skin tingled each time it happened, or how every time you smiled and thanked him, it felt like the entire world brightened. He wasn’t used to feeling this way, this vulnerable, but somehow, he didn’t mind it when it was you.

“Got it?” he asked, his voice a little softer than usual as he watched you carefully.

You nodded, a soft smile spreading across your face. “Yeah, I think I do. You make it sound so easy.”

Damian’s eyes softened, and for the briefest of moments, he allowed himself to smile back at you—genuinely, without any pretenses. It was a rare moment for him, but when it came to you, he didn’t feel the need to hide everything.

“Good. I’m glad,” he said, his voice almost tender.

You packed up your things, still smiling. As you stood, you gave him one last look, your eyes meeting his, and for a second, Damian felt like the entire world had come to a stop. There was something in your gaze—something that made him feel like maybe, just maybe, he didn’t have to hide how he felt.

“Thanks again, Damian,” you said as you turned to leave, a soft wave following behind you.

And as you walked away, Damian stood there, watching you, a small, secret smile tugging at his lips. Maybe one day he’d tell you how he felt, but for now, he was content with these little moments. He was content with the idea that, for once in his life, someone saw him for who he truly was—not the perfect heir, not the deadly assassin, but the boy who was hopelessly in love with you.

For weeks, Damian wrestled with the idea of asking you out. It wasn’t like he was afraid of rejection—he was Damian Wayne. Fear was beneath him. No, this was different. This was you. The thought of putting his feelings into words, of making himself vulnerable to you, made his stomach twist in ways he didn’t like to acknowledge.

But at the same time… the thought of anyone else asking you out, of anyone else standing beside you, laughing with you, touching you—it was unbearable. The mere idea of it set his blood on fire. He had to make a move. You were his, even if you didn’t know it yet.

So, like everything else in his life, Damian devised a plan. It had to be perfect. He would not fail.

The first thing he did was eliminate all competition. Subtly, of course. Any boy who looked at you for too long? Suddenly, they found themselves tripping over conveniently placed obstacles. Anyone who flirted with you? They’d mysteriously lose their confidence after a single, bone-chilling glare from Damian. He made sure that by the time he approached you, no one else would dare think they had a chance.

Next, he had to find the right moment. Timing was everything. He refused to make a fool of himself by asking you out in a setting that wasn’t optimal. He studied your habits—when you were most relaxed, most receptive. He knew you liked to sit by the windows in the library during study hall. You liked the way the sunlight hit the pages of your books. That would be the perfect place.

The day of, he was completely composed—or at least, that’s what he told himself. He approached your table with his usual confident stride, pulling out the chair across from you without asking, as he often did.

You glanced up, surprised but not unwelcome to his presence. “Oh, hey, Damian.” You smiled at him, and his heart stuttered.

“Hello,” he replied, voice smooth, but slightly more clipped than usual. He was trying to keep his emotions in check. “I require your time this Saturday.”

You blinked. “Uh, what?”

Damian inhaled slowly. He could feel heat rising to his ears. His grip tightened on the book he brought, knuckles white. This was not how it was supposed to go. He had rehearsed this in his head a hundred times, but now, sitting in front of you, he felt like an idiot.

He quickly corrected himself. “What I mean is… I have taken the liberty of arranging a date for us this Saturday. I will pick you up at noon. Wear something suitable for the occasion.”

There. Perfect. No room for rejection. No awkward stammering. Tt. Why was he nervous in the first place?

You blinked again, then tilted your head, processing his words. “A date?”

“Yes,” Damian confirmed, keeping his tone even, as if this was the most logical thing in the world. Because to him, it was.

Your lips parted slightly in surprise, but then—then you smiled. And not just any smile. It was soft, warm, genuine. And it was for him.

“You’re asking me out on a date?” you clarified, amusement lacing your tone.

He bristled slightly at your wording. “Obviously.”

You chuckled, and for a moment, he thought his heart might actually explode. He had never wanted anything more than to be the reason you smiled like that every day.

“Well,” you said, propping your chin on your hand, watching him with something unreadable in your eyes, “you sure don’t waste time with subtlety, huh?”

“Subtlety is for those who lack certainty,” Damian replied smoothly, lifting his chin. “And I am certain.”

Your cheeks warmed, and that small reaction sent a rush of satisfaction through him. “Alright, Damian,” you finally said, “I’d love to go on a date with you.”

For the first time in his life, Damian stopped thinking. He just… felt. A warmth spread through his chest, foreign yet addicting. He nodded once, as if sealing an unspoken pact.

“Good,” he said, voice steady, though his pulse was anything but. “I will text you the details.”

Then, without another word, he stood up and left. Just like that. Because if he stayed a second longer, he knew he would either start grinning like a fool or do something completely irrational, like kiss you right there in the middle of the library.

As soon as he rounded the corner, out of your sight, Damian exhaled, pressing a hand over his chest. His heart was hammering. Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.

But he didn’t care. Because you said yes.

And he will make sure it was a date you’d never forget.

The day of the date arrived. Damian had meticulously planned every detail, not leaving anything to chance. No, this wouldn’t be a “let’s grab coffee and see where things go” type of outing. This was his date with you.

He arrived at your house right on time. He didn’t need to check his watch—his internal sense of timing was precise, down to the minute. He knocked firmly on your door, his hand steady, even though he had spent the last few hours agonizing over the finer points of the evening in his mind. When you opened the door, his breath caught for a fraction of a second.

You stood there in a simple, yet elegant dress that was both understated and beautiful—just like you. The soft fabric clung to your figure just enough to highlight your natural grace, and the way your hair framed your face made his pulse quicken.

“Ready?” he asked, his voice steady, though his gaze softened as he took in your appearance.

You smiled, your eyes bright, and for a moment, he thought his heart might beat out of his chest. "I’m ready."

As you stepped out of the door and joined him, Damian offered his arm with a small, confident smile that was so different from his usual intense expression. He had plans for this evening, and he was determined to follow them through.

The car ride was smooth, quiet, but not uncomfortable. He drove with precision, each movement calculated and controlled, but there was something different in the air tonight. Something lighter. Every time he glanced over at you, you caught his eye, and he had to resist the urge to smile. It felt almost surreal—this quiet, sweet moment between the two of you. You’d spent time together before, but never like this.

You asked him where you were going, but he only gave you a cryptic smile. “You’ll see,” was all he said. You didn’t push him, curious to see where he had decided to take you.

Eventually, he pulled up to a small, secluded restaurant, one of Gotham’s more refined and hidden gems. It was quaint but elegant, with outdoor seating overlooking a picturesque garden. The soft light of lanterns danced around the patio, giving the place a warm, intimate atmosphere.

He opened the door for you as you stepped out, and offered his hand to you. You took it without hesitation, feeling the warmth of his touch seep through your skin. There was a kind of unspoken respect in the way he treated you. It wasn’t rushed or impatient—just an easy calmness that made you feel like you were the only one in the world to him.

Damian led you to your table, which was set for two, tucked away in a private corner, draped with ivy and soft fairy lights. It was the kind of place where the world around you seemed to fade away. As you sat down, he carefully pulled out your chair, ensuring you were comfortable, before taking his own seat across from you.

There was something so different about Damian tonight—something that made you realize, in that moment, just how special this date really was. He wasn’t like the other boys your age, with their offhand jokes or their self-absorbed chatter. No, Damian Wayne was something entirely different. He had this quiet intensity, but underneath that, a care that he wasn’t always quick to show.

The waiter came and Damian ordered for both of you with an air of confidence, speaking in fluent French, making you chuckle softly at how effortlessly he handled everything. But what made you laugh more was the glint of satisfaction in his eyes when he said, “The wine selection here is impeccable. I trust you’ll enjoy it.” It was like he was proud to share his tastes with you.

As you ate, the conversation flowed naturally. Damian asked about your interests, your thoughts on various books you had been reading, and he listened so intently, as though every word you spoke was a treasure to him. It wasn’t just idle talk—there was genuine curiosity in his voice. And when he did speak, it was always with purpose, never just to fill the silence.

You were beginning to see another side of him. A side that was almost... gentle.

You told him about your love for horses and how you dreamed of riding across the open fields someday. Damian’s eyes softened, a quiet smile tugging at his lips. “I can take you to the stables at Wayne Manor sometime,” he said with an easy confidence. “There’s a ranch not far from the estate. You’d like it.”

You blinked, a little surprised. “You have horses?”

“Yes. I do,” he replied, his smile more sincere now, like the idea of sharing something personal with you had softened him further. “Perhaps you could teach me a thing or two. I’ve never been particularly good at it.”

That was the thing about Damian. He wasn’t afraid to show his flaws when it came to you. In fact, he seemed to crave your approval, though he’d never openly admit it. But it wasn’t desperate. It wasn’t needy. It was simply him, wanting you to know who he really was.

As the evening wore on, the conversation became more relaxed. You found yourself laughing more freely, your initial nerves completely gone, replaced by an easy comfort that felt like you had known him forever. Damian was still Damian—intense, sharp, but there was a tenderness to him tonight that made him seem... normal. Human. Not just the son of Bruce Wayne, not just the little assassin.

Finally, after dessert, the night began to wind down. Damian stood and offered his hand once more. You placed your hand in his, and together, you walked out into the garden. The soft hum of the night air and the occasional chirp of a cricket filled the silence between you.

As you approached his car, Damian paused. He turned to face you, and for the first time that evening, his expression was serious—not cold, but thoughtful, as if he were gathering his thoughts for something important.

“You’re...” He cleared his throat, looking down at his shoes for just a brief moment before meeting your eyes again. “I have enjoyed tonight... more than I anticipated.”

You raised an eyebrow, a teasing smile pulling at your lips. “More than you anticipated? So you did expect it to be bad?”

He stiffened for a second, realizing the unintended implication. “No. That is not what I meant.” He hesitated, looking at you for a long, quiet moment. Then, in a voice quieter than before, almost soft, he added, “You’re... different. In a way I didn’t expect.”

You blinked, feeling the weight of his words settle in the air. “Damian…” you started, but before you could finish, he reached out and gently took your hand in his.

His thumb brushed over the back of your hand in a way that felt intimate, but not in a rushed or inappropriate way—more like he was savoring the moment.

“I would like to do this again,” he said, his voice earnest, but not without the usual confidence. “Whenever you’re ready.”

And with that, he took your hand and, with a deep breath, lowered his head and kissed the back of it. The touch of his lips was soft, respectful—gentle, and for a moment, the world around you seemed to blur into the background.

When he pulled back, his gaze remained locked with yours, almost searching, as if to make sure you understood just how much that small gesture meant to him.

“I’ll walk you to the door,” he said quietly, straightening up and offering his arm again, as if nothing had changed—except, of course, that now you both knew something had. Something deeper than either of you had expected when you started this evening.

You smiled, heart fluttering in your chest as you took his arm. “I’d like that.”

From the moment you officially became Damian’s girlfriend, your life changed—not in the dramatic way people might expect when dating the son of Bruce Wayne, but in the way that everything suddenly felt different. Like the world had shifted slightly, aligning perfectly in a way it hadn’t before.

Damian wasn’t like other boys your age. He didn’t do the whole awkward teenage romance thing. He wasn’t overly flirty, nor did he stumble through his words or second-guess himself. If he wanted to hold your hand, he did. If he wanted to tell you he liked the way you looked in a certain outfit, he said it, blunt and without hesitation.

His affection wasn’t loud or showy, but it was constant—always there, woven into everything he did.

Damian is, above all else, a gentleman. He treats you with the kind of respect that most guys your age wouldn’t even think about. Holding doors open for you? Always. Walking on the side of the street closest to traffic to “protect” you? A given.

If you ever carried anything heavier than a book, it was suddenly his burden. He didn’t even ask—he just took it from you with a simple, “Tt. You shouldn’t be straining yourself.”

He makes sure you never have to worry about anything. If you so much as mention feeling cold? His jacket is around your shoulders before you can finish your sentence. If you’re tired? He’s finding the closest place for you to sit, even if it means him physically leading you there by the small of your back.

But most of all, he listens. He pays attention in a way no one else does. If you casually mention something you like—your favorite flowers, a book you’ve been dying to read, a little café you want to try—Damian remembers. And soon enough, you’ll find a bouquet of those flowers waiting in your locker, that book sitting on your desk, or him showing up outside your house on a Saturday morning, saying, “Get in. We’re going to that café you won’t stop talking about.”

Because to Damian, caring means action.

Damian isn’t very verbal with his affection at first. He won’t say sweet, flowery words or write you poetry (even though you swear he has the soul of an old poet somewhere deep inside him). Instead, he shows his love through actions.

He’s always near you. Always. If you’re walking through the halls at school, his hand is resting against your lower back, gently guiding you. If you’re studying together, his knee is touching yours beneath the table. If you’re out somewhere, he positions himself slightly in front of you, instinctively shielding you from the crowd.

And while he doesn’t do PDA in public (besides holding your hand or the occasional brush of his fingers along your arm), when you’re alone? That’s when he lets his guard down.

Soft touches. He’s always touching you in some way—running his fingers over the back of your hand, tucking a stray hair behind your ear, resting a hand on your knee when you sit next to him.

Forehead touches. Whenever he’s feeling particularly soft (which he would never admit out loud), he leans in, pressing his forehead against yours. It’s a silent way of saying I’m here. You’re mine. We belong to each other.

Hand kisses. He does this a lot. If you ever feel sad? He takes your hand, kisses your knuckles, and simply says, “You have me.” And that’s enough.

Damian is not someone who tolerates threats to what’s his.

He’s not loud about it, not the type to start fights over jealousy, but his presence alone is enough to keep people in check. If another guy even thinks about flirting with you, Damian is already there, standing a little too close, his green eyes sharp and possessive as he stares the poor guy down.

His hand will tighten on your waist, and his voice will drop an octave as he says something like, “I assume you have nothing important to say. If so, leave.”

And just like that, the threat is gone.

If you ever tease him about being jealous, he just crosses his arms and scoffs, Tt. “I am simply ensuring that no one wastes your time with their nonsense.”

But the way his hand subtly tightens around yours says otherwise.

At first, Damian struggles with vulnerability. He’s used to being the strong one, the one who handles everything without needing help. But with you? You see past that.

There are nights when he sneaks into your room through your window, not as Robin, but just as Damian. Those are the moments when he talks to you about things he’d never say to anyone else.

About his mother. About his father. About the weight of his family name and how, sometimes, he feels like he has to be perfect to live up to it.

And you listen. You always listen. You don’t try to fix him, don’t tell him that he’s wrong for feeling this way. You just hold his hand, stroke his hair, and whisper, “You’re already enough, Damian.”

And those words stay with him longer than he’ll ever admit.

Bruce: At first? He’s skeptical. Protective. But when he sees how much Damian genuinely cares for you—how you make him softer, more grounded—Bruce actually starts to approve.

“You keep him... balanced,” Bruce admits to you one evening. “That’s not an easy thing to do.”

(Which, coming from Bruce Wayne, is probably the highest compliment you’ll ever receive.)

Dick: “Oh my god. Damian has a girlfriend.” He’s so smug about it. Constantly teasing Damian, constantly referring to you as his soft spot.

He also makes sure you know that if Damian ever hurts you (which he won’t), you can definitely call Dick to handle it.

Alfred: Alfred adores you. Treats you like family from the moment he realizes you make Damian happy. Always makes extra tea and snacks whenever you visit Wayne Manor.

“You keep Master Damian in check, Miss. I quite appreciate it.”

Dating Damian isn’t easy. He’s intense, overprotective, sometimes way too serious for his age. But at the same time?

He loves deeply.

Once you’re his, you’re his forever. There’s no in-between, no uncertainty. Damian loves you with the same ferocity that he does everything else in his life.

And one day? When he’s older, stronger, even more sure of himself—he won’t hesitate to tell you:

“You are mine. And I am yours. Always.”

And that is what loving Damian is like.

— MASTERLIST ☆

— © luv-lock. Don't copy, repost or translate any of my works here or any other websites ☆

[ari-ana-bel-la]

Hey, can you write one where Charles and Alex bring their baby girl home from the hospital and introduce her to Leo!!

Our little miracle

The delivery room was quiet except for the faint beeping of the monitors and the soft murmur of nurses moving around. The lights were dimmed slightly, creating a calm and intimate atmosphere. After hours of labor—four long, emotional hours—Alex finally lay back against the hospital bed, her chest rising and falling with exhaustion. Yet, the fatigue couldn’t dull the radiant joy shining in her eyes as she gazed down at the tiny bundle cradled in her arms.

"She’s… she’s perfect," Alex whispered, her voice thick with emotion as she pressed a gentle kiss to the soft, warm lips of their newborn daughter. "I wanted to be the first," she added, a tear slipping down her cheek.

Charles, sitting beside her with his arm wrapped protectively around her shoulders, could barely tear his eyes away from the baby. His heart felt too full—like it might burst with how much love surged through him all at once. He reached out with trembling fingers to brush over the fine, dark hair covering their daughter’s head, his touch feather-light as if he were afraid she might disappear.

"Yn Julie," he murmured, testing her name on his lips like it was the most precious thing in the world. And it was. "She’s… I don’t even have words. I’m in love." His voice broke slightly, and he laughed softly, wiping at his face with the back of his hand. "I’d do anything for her—anything."

Alex smiled softly, resting her head against his shoulder. "I know you would," she whispered. "She already has you wrapped around her little finger."

Charles laughed again, softer this time, his gaze never leaving their daughter’s peaceful face. "I didn’t stand a chance."

Their little Yn stirred slightly in Alex’s arms, her face scrunching up before she let out a soft sigh and nestled back into the warmth of her mother. The sight melted Charles’ heart all over again. He leaned down, pressing a reverent kiss to Alex’s temple. "Thank you," he whispered against her skin. "For her. For everything."

Alex turned her face toward him, brushing a hand through his curls. "We made her together," she reminded him, her voice gentle. "And now we get to love her—together."

---

Three days later, the hospital discharge papers were signed, and Charles carried Yn carefully to their car, every step slow and deliberate as if the world might break around them. Alex slid into the backseat with their daughter, adjusting the car seat straps with meticulous care while Charles double-checked everything twice before starting the engine.

The drive home was quiet, filled with soft coos from Yn and the occasional glance Charles sent through the rearview mirror to make sure both his girls were okay. Alex hummed softly under her breath, her fingers tracing lazy patterns against their daughter’s blanket.

When they pulled into the driveway, Charles exhaled in relief. "Home," he said softly, turning to smile at Alex. "We’re home."

Alex smiled back, her heart swelling as he opened the door to help her out. "I can’t wait to introduce her to Leo," she admitted as she stepped carefully out of the car.

"I’ll go get him," Charles said, pressing a kiss to Yn’s forehead before jogging toward his car. "Arthur’s been spoiling him rotten. I’ll be right back."

While Alex settled inside, cradling Yn close as the baby dozed softly against her chest, Charles made the short drive to his brother’s place. Arthur greeted him at the door, a laughing golden blur darting between his legs.

"Leo’s missed you," Arthur said, handing the leash to Charles. "He’s been a little angel, but he knows something’s different."

Charles knelt down, ruffling the soft fur behind Leo’s ears. "You’re gonna meet your baby sister," he whispered fondly. "Let’s go home, buddy."

When he returned, Leo trotted eagerly beside him, tail wagging a mile a minute as they stepped into the cozy warmth of their house. Alex looked up from the sofa, smiling softly as she rocked Yn in her arms.

"Hey, baby boy," Alex greeted Leo softly. "Did you miss us?"

Leo let out a soft bark, spinning in a happy circle before bounding over. Charles laughed, crouching to unclip the leash while Leo sniffed excitedly around the living room, soaking in the familiar scents—and the new one.

"Let him burn off some energy first," Charles murmured, scratching behind Leo’s ears before tossing one of his favorite toys across the room.

For a while, they let Leo play—his little legs carrying him back and forth across the living room as he chased after his toy, tail wagging fiercely. Charles joined in, throwing the toy while Alex laughed quietly, their home filled with warmth and happiness.

When Leo finally slowed down, panting lightly, Alex stood. "I’ll get her," she said softly. "Let’s see how he reacts."

Charles settled on the sofa, gently lifting Leo onto his lap. The little dachshund curled comfortably against him, still alert but much calmer as he gazed curiously at the doorway.

When Alex returned, Yn was still fast asleep, bundled in her soft blanket. The sight of Alex holding their daughter—so small and precious—made Charles’ chest tighten with love all over again.

"Okay, little guy," Charles murmured as Alex approached, kneeling beside the sofa. "Meet Yn. Be gentle."

Leo’s ears perked up as he sniffed the air, clearly picking up on the unfamiliar but intriguing scent. Slowly, he stretched out his neck, his tiny nose twitching as he inched closer.

Alex held her breath, watching with careful eyes as Leo gently sniffed over Yn’s soft hair. For a moment, he was still—until, with a contented sigh, he licked her head.

Charles let out a quiet laugh, his heart swelling at the unexpected sweetness of the moment. "Leo!" he scolded playfully, although he couldn’t hide his smile. "Not her hair, buddy."

"At least he likes her," Alex giggled softly, reaching out to stroke Leo’s fur.

Leo, satisfied, settled down again—this time resting his head carefully on Yn’s tiny belly as though claiming her as his own. The sight was almost too much. Charles scrambled for his phone, snapping picture after picture, unable to stop himself.

"He’s already obsessed," he whispered, leaning over to show Alex the photos. "Look at him."

Alex smiled softly, her heart warming at the image of their two babies together. "I love this," she murmured, leaning into Charles’ side. "I love them. I love you."

Charles kissed her temple, his voice low and sincere. "I love you three more than anything," he promised, pulling her closer as Leo let out a soft sigh, watching over his new baby sister with unwavering devotion.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♥︎♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Authors Note: Hey loves. I hope you enjoy this story. My requests are always open for you

-💙🦋

[pluckyredhead]

Do you think Dick has a favourite brother?

I LOVE THIS QUESTION. I'M GOING TO ANSWER IT AT UNNECESSARY LENGTH.

But for the tl;dr crowd: yes, 1000000%. It's Damian. Dick would not admit this under pain of death, even to himself, but it's Damian.

THE LONG VERSION:

So Dick and Jason are not close and never have been. I always sort of blink in bewilderment when people say they are, or were when Jason was Robin, because they are demonstrably not, and that's what's interesting and tragic about them.

The fact of the matter is that Dick simply wasn't around very much when Jason was Robin. The Doyleist reason for this is that he wasn't really being treated like a Bat character: he was a Titans character, appearing in Titans books, with only the occasional cameo in Batbooks. He and Jason get along very well in Jason's first origin story (when Jason was a circus acrobat and his parents were eaten by crocodiles); in fact, Dick tells Bruce he wants to adopt Jason and Bruce is like "Not if I adopt him first!" But after that, Dick simply...wasn't there very often.

If you need a Watsonian reason for this, it's pretty easy to extrapolate one. Dick and Bruce were not getting along well during this period, so of course Dick would avoid Bruce and Gotham. And yeah, I think it's fair to assume Dick felt some kind of complicated feelings about Bruce having a new Robin, especially post-Crisis when Bruce made Jason Robin without Dick having any say or even a warning that it was going to happen. I tend to headcanon that he resented Jason a little, but was mature enough to know that it wasn't actually Jason's fault, and partially decided to stay away so that he didn't take that out on Jason. But Jason, a smart and sensitive kid, interpreted this as Dick avoiding him because he didn't like him.

And then Jason died.

Dick took that hard, and I think it was less "my brother who I had a close relationship with died" and more "this child followed in my footsteps and it killed him and I wasn't even there for him when I had the chance." To me, that absolutely forms the subtext of the relationship he develops with Tim.

Not at the start. At the start, once "A Lonely Place of Dying" is over, he's as checked out with Tim as he was with Jason. The Doyleist reason is the same - Dick literally just wasn't supposed to be in Batbooks too much - but the way it plays out is sometimes really funny in an awful way. Like in and just after Knightfall, when Bruce gets his back broken by Bane and is like "I've known Jean-Paul Valley for two weeks and he barely has any training, most of it done by my extremely new 13-year-old Robin...I think I'll make him Batman." And then Tim's dad and Tim's dad's doctor, Shondra Kinsolving, get kidnapped, and since Bruce has been aggressively romantically pursuing Shondra to the point of it being uncomfortable and inappropriate, he's like "Okay going to rescue Shondra! I mean, your dad! I'm taking Alfred with me! Tim, you're in charge of Gotham and Jean-Paul byeeeeee!" And then JPV immediately gets unhinged and violent and tries to kill Tim and Tim keeps calling Alfred like "Um can you please come back and help" and Alfred's like "No" and Tim's like "Okay well did you at least rescue my dad?" and Alfred's like "Also no." Anyway Dick finally comes to Gotham and Tim is like "THANK GOD, HELP, BRUCE MADE AZRAEL BATMAN AND HE'S TRYING TO KILL EVERYONE, I NEED AN ADULT" and Dick is like "He made someone who isn't me Batman??? 😡😡😡" and then just...fucks off back to New York and leaves Tim to deal with it. Very out of character, VERY funny.

BUT ANYWAY. Then we get to around 1996 and 1. Dick is no longer on the Titans which has a whole new lineup and 2. there's an editorial shift emphasizing the Batfamily. This is where the line really expands: Robin (started in 1993, but still pretty new), Nightwing, Birds of Prey, Azrael, eventually Gotham Knights in 1999 and Batgirl in 2000. Dick moves to Bludhaven and spends way more time in Gotham.

This is when Dick looks at Tim, says "Is anyone gonna big brother that?" and doesn't wait for an answer. All of a sudden he's behaving in a way that suddenly feels in character for him (although the idea of Dick as a big brother/mentor...really wasn't a thing for him prior to this era, so it's more of a new development that feels correct in retrospect). He's training Tim, he's giving him advice, he's teasing him about girls, he's coming up with inside jokes, he's giving him noogies. It's like he watched a bunch of 80s sitcoms to learn how to be a big brother and applied his research accordingly.

And Tim? Tim absolutely blossoms under the attention. Tim, who has been adultified by every other adult in his life since he was, like, eight, is getting treated like a kid. Tim, whose parents are never around, and don't pay attention when they are around, has an adult he looks up to who wants to spend time with him, for fun. Tim, who has hero worshipped Dick Grayson since he was...well, according to the math, he was one (1) year old so let's ignore the math, but he was small, is now basking in the full force of Dick Grayson's off-the-charts charisma. This is the best thing that has ever happened to Tim. This is the dream.

I want to be clear here: I think Dick's extreme reversal here is a delayed reaction to Jason's death, but I don't want to imply that he doesn't care about Tim as an individual. He loves Tim as much as Tim loves him. Tim's good opinion is incredibly important to him. This relationship goes both ways.

Annnnd then both of their lives fall apart extremely rapidly, and Damian shows up, and Bruce dies. And Dick tries to get out of it, but ultimately it ends how it has to: with him accepting the mantle of Batman, and responsibility for Damian.

The relationship Dick has with Damian is nothing like the relationship Dick has with Tim. Tim is his little bro. Damian is his baby. He's fourteen years older than Damian and as much of a parent figure as a sibling figure. And Damian is difficult and exhausting but Dick slowly, slowly coaxes a degree of trust and affection out of him that even Bruce will never achieve. And he can only do that by making Damian Robin, which means Tim has to stop being Robin.

This is where Dick and Tim fall apart, because what they need in this very vulnerable moment is so diametrically opposed, and neither of them are wrong. To Dick, asking Tim to step down - or up, from Dick's perspective - from being Robin is a compliment. Dick fought to free himself from Bruce, to become his own man with his own name, and so asking Tim to do the same thing is a show of faith in Tim, in his skills and experience.

Whereas Tim's hero-worship has always been for Robin, not Batman, and every glimpse he has had of a future beyond Robin has always been a dystopia. But more importantly, Tim has just lost his father, his stepmother, his mentor, his girlfriend, and his two best friends. He desperately needs to be able to lean on Dick, the grown-up he admires the most, and instead, Dick is kicking him out of the nest.

In other words: Dick is saying, with all the love and trust in his heart, "I need you to help me by being a fellow adult." And Tim is saying, with all the love and trust in his heart, "But I need you to be my adult." And they both get a no.

This is water under the bridge now, and they've healed even though they've never really talked it through because Bats don't do that (although what I wouldn't give for a Nightwing/Red Robin miniseries where they do everything but talk about it). But I do think Tim looks at the closeness and affection between Dick and Damian and feels some kind of way about it to this day, because it's so clear to everyone that Damian is Dick's favorite...but Tim remembers when he was Dick's favorite. And what Tim doesn't see is that Dick values him as a genuine partner in a way he will never quite achieve with Damian, because to him, Damian will always be his baby, even more so than he is Bruce's. (Dick is Bruce's baby, actually, not Damian. In this essay I will...)

(I could see a really interesting dynamic developing between Jason and Tim here, as the ones on the outside of that mutual appreciation society, but sadly the comics have never gone there. Alas.)

Finally, I think the relationship between Dick and Duke is very much "I just work here." Like, Dick is grown, he's out of the house, he's largely matured past the Bat-drama. He likes Duke but he doesn't feel the compulsion to brother him the way he did with Tim, and Duke doesn't need the mother henning Damian did.

IN CONCLUSION, and hooboy, sorry anon, most of this wasn't at all the question you asked:

Duke and Dick get along fine but aren't particularly close.

Damian is Dick's precious baby and always will be, even when Damian is an adult and annoyed by this treatment (but privately kind of loves it because he is a princess at heart).

Tim is Dick's buddy, his pal, his equal. If Dick were ever going to talk something through with a sibling, it would be Tim. (But that would require Dick admitting that everything isn't perfect or asking for help, so it'll never happen.)

Jason and Dick can't be in a room together for five minutes without fighting and Dick finds him wildly frustrating, but they will throw down for each other. When they aren't punching each other.

(And to answer the corollary: Damian's favorite brother is Dick. Tim's favorite brother is also Dick. Duke's favorite brother is Tim by default, since he doesn't know Dick very well and Jason and Damian are both too annoying, but really he's closest with Cass. Jason's favorite brother is Ace and he has communicated that often and loudly (but really it's probably also Dick).)

[amywritesthings]

care. / a levi period comfort fic

pairing: levi ackerman x f!reader word count: 1.4k summary: You have to skip your gym date with Levi due to bad period cramps. Levi, however, isn't going to let you suffer alone.

note: set in the press four for more options / dating on airplane mode universe tags: modern au, neighbors au, menstruation, cramp pain, period talk, doting new boyfriend levi, fluff, adult language, reader has a chronic pms pain

author note: today is my birthday!! my gift to you is this little P4/DOAP one shot. this is a little self indulgent, so i hope this helps anyone else that experiences bad pains like me! i will be writing one shots all month for my endo awareness event, so feel free to send requests if you would like to see more! credit: dividers by @saradika-graphics

( Read on AO3. )

You know as soon as you wake up what kind of day it’s going to be.

As you stir from slumber, you’re met with the familiar, unforgiving punch to the gut before you take your first deep inhale. The sharp jab is a tell-tale sign that you should have probably hit the pharmacy when you had the time during your lunch break — yesterday.

You know, before things got awful.

“God damn it.”

Periods have always been a sore spot to discuss in your life. The immense pain that follows the next agonizing few days is not a new occurrence, but knowing them intimately never makes them any better. No matter how many times you’ve prepared, weathered, endured — it’s a gamble whether or not you have the energy to eat today, much less do anything productive.

Dragging your phone off of the adjacent nightstand, your heart sinks when you see your most recent notifications:

Alarm set for 7:30 a.m. (Dismiss?)

Remember to pay credit card bill. (Eventually.)

New text from Levi Ackerman.

Shit.

Opening the third notification first, you read his text from five minutes ago.

[LEVI:] Hey. Still going to the gym this morning?

Self hatred floods your system when you realize there���s no way in hell you’re going to be going to the gym today, much less leaving this apartment. It’ll be a miracle if you can drag yourself to the bathroom.

Missing out on seeing Levi today hurts more than you’re willing to admit.

Tapping the reply bubble, you type in response:

[ME:] Sorry, not feeling well. :( Rain check?

It’s weird to confess why, right?

Everything is way too fresh, much too new, between the two of you.

You can’t burden your newest partner with the—

Another notification pops up immediately.

[LEVI:] What’s wrong?

Double shit.

Sighing to yourself, you type back, hesitate, then send.

[ME:] Don’t worry about it, it’s pretty embarrassing. I probably won’t be able to leave the apartment today. I’m rooting you on from down here!

Or up here, technically, if he’s going to be at the gym.

(Dumbass.)

You drop your phone to your mattress, slowly easing yourself out of bed. You check the sheets behind you to make sure you didn’t ruin them — thank god, there’s a singular win for this morning — before waddling to the bathroom.

Grabbing a new pair of underwear and a pad, you sit on the toilet with your head in your hands, taking some time to breathe through the initial cramps.

A few days.

Just a few days and you can—

It’s faint, but you hear it.

Three raps at your front door.

Knock, knock, knock.

Perking your head up, your brows furrow as you finish up, tug your pajama bottoms back on, and wash your hands. Crossing the living room to the front door, you use the peephole to see who’s waiting outside.

For the briefest moment, you forget your cramps altogether.

“Levi?!” you yelp, shocked by his presence.

“Hey,” he states, arms crossed over his chest. He’s wearing his typical white workout tank, displaying his lean arms in the fisheye lens of your doorframe. “You okay in there?”

“I— yeah, I’m okay!” you lie, higher pitched than usual. “Sorry, I can’t let you in.”

You note how his chin tilts, contemplating your brevity. 

“You come down with some shitty cold or whatever?”

“No, it’s—”

“Stomach bug?”

“No, not at all, it’s just—”

“I can wear a mask if you got something catchable.” He shifts, thumbing back to the hallway behind him like he knows you’re watching. “I have a bunch at my place.”

“Levi, no,” you blurt, getting frustrated. “I have my period!”

The dark-haired man stops.

His brows furrow, contemplating with evident confusion on his face.

“...I’m confused, a period of what? Fucking dysentary or something?” When you’re about to argue, he pointedly glances at the peephole. “Can you at least open the door for a sec?”

Reluctantly you agree to his request, unlocking the door and swinging it open. You feel immense shame standing in front of your new boyfriend looking messy and make-up free.

There hasn’t even been time to at least put on some moisturizer, damn it.

When he finally sees you at your worst (or so you perceive to be your worst) he doesn’t even bat an eye.

The stormy grays just stare into your own, brows rising expectantly.

“What do you need?”

You lean against your doorframe, trying to breathe through another wave of cramps. “What?”

With a tsk, he steps a baited sneaker into the threshold of your apartment. When you don’t push him out, he fully enters your apartment and beelines to your kitchen.

(Right. Same layout, just a couple of floors higher.)

“Get comfy on the couch,” he states like he’s a coach again, devoid of nonsense. “You have any tea lying around?”

“I don’t understand,” you state, only then closing the door to your apartment. “You were about to go to the gym—”

“Yeah, and now I’m not.”

“Levi.”

“Couch,” he counters, plucking the kettle you had sitting dormant on your stovetop to fill it with water. “Or your bed, if that makes you more comfortable.”

You can’t really argue with that, not when your cramps are making you dizzy.

Hell, his insistence on helping is making you even dizzier but in an entirely different way.

When you dated Porco, he never extended help beyond some comforting words and a stray pint of ice cream. Levi looks natural rummaging around your kitchen as if he’s been spending time here for months.

“You really don’t have to babysit me,” you try to reason, though you find yourself slowly shambling towards your couch anyway. “I’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, well, my mother used to have a lot of really bad months when I was growing up.” Levi starts the stove, heating up the water. His eyes briefly flicker to you. “My friend, Hange, doesn’t exactly have a walk in the park with this shit, either. They left an arsenal of supplies at my place whenever they come around. Can’t imagine they’ll care if I borrow some of it.”

So Levi has period supplies at his apartment for friends and family?

That…

You’ve never heard of any man who has something like that.

“Supplies like what?”

“Admittedly it’s a bunch of stuff we used to offer people at our gym in case they were having a rough week,” he explains as if this is nothing while he watches the kettle grow hot. 

Then again, periods are supposed to be nothing.

They’re natural and half of the planet go through them monthly, and yet —

“Heating pads, two different sizes. Mint and ginger tea are soothing for cramping. I’ve got a decently fresh stock of those leaves. Not sure if you’re out of sanitary products, but I got some of those in a cabinet, too.”

You stare dumbfounded, your heart skipping a beat.

(As if this man couldn’t be any more attractive.)

When you don’t respond, he turns around to look at you. His eyes soften as they search your face.

“I’d ask how your pain is right now, but I take it it’s high?” You nod. “Alright. Mind if I keep the door unlocked? I’ll run upstairs and grab everything.”

“You don’t have—”

“Don’t,” he cuts you off, but it isn’t firm like before.

Levi walks across the room towards you. As he bends at the hip, his dog tags slip out of his tank top.

Gentle lips press to the crown of your head.

“Let me take care of you, alright? You’re my girl. That’s my responsibility, especially when you’re feeling like shit. I can do push-ups anywhere. Gym’s not a necessity.”

Melting at his reassurance, you can’t help but tease. 

“So I get pampering and a show? Talk about high-class service.”

The lips on your head curve to a smirk before pulling away, his eyes meeting yours. His hand raises to cup the side of your face adoringly. An absentminded thumb strokes your cheek.

“Yeah, well, you know me. High fucking class or whatever.”

When you laugh, the corner of his mouth twitches again. He lifts your chin and leans forward, kissing your lips. You return the gesture, warmth spreading throughout your body.

“I’ll be five minutes,” he whispers against your lips.

“It only takes you five minutes to run up six flights of stairs and back?”

“You can time me if you think I’m lying.”

“Deal.”

[star2fishmeg]

Which hughes do you think would be into the weirdest kink?

[18+]

I think most people have got something deep down, personally, whether they know it or not (doesn't have to be extreme either). So, I wouldn't say weirdest bc I don't want anyone feeling kink shamed, so we'll say the kink they keep the most quiet (under cut):

Quinn | He's a quiet guy in general, but he has thoughts of e-stim running through his mind a lot. He's used it before for recovery treatment, but he can't help but imagine how you'd squirm and whine if he stuck the patches to your most sensitive areas, gradually increasing the voltage to coax an orgasm out of you. Quinn's openly been the number one appreciator of your tits, never failing to hear you moan out and tangle your fingers in his hair, pushing his head into you. He excels in making sure they get the attention they deserve but too often while sucking them pink he's imagined you lactating on to his tongue. He's a curious guy, enjoys learning, and there's only one way he'll find out how you taste. But the one he keeps quiet the most, is rubbing one out as he cucks you. The condition is that he gets a little say in who, he's a possessive guy, and loves you dearly and what his lover wants, his lover gets so if you were to ever bring up the subject of helping someone out or inviting someone to join, he'd be more than happy to watch you wail out amused moans, getting the temporary satisfaction you desire. After all, he'd just make sure to fuck you better to erase all trace of the other person, it's not like you'd pick anyone over him anyway.

Jack | Gives the vibes that he's had a few roleplay fantasies. It's less about the scenario - he doesn't mind if he's slamming his cock into a maid or being sucked dry by a nurse - and more about the little outfits you'd wear, those skimpy ones that don't hide much, those little skirts that let your panties peek out, tops that can easily but pulled on to free your tits. As long as the allusion's there, he's getting harder by the second. Speaking of fantasies, best know that when he's chewing on that hockey glove of his, it's because he's thinking about fucking you with his gear. He can't explain it, but the thought of you tainting his gear with your cum, your scent and coaching you through adapting to the size has him aching and palming his dick. Whether it's the finger of his glove and rubbing your clit over his stick and wiping you clean with his jersey, there's something about the possession of it he can't get out of his head. His last, most unspoken kink is how deep down, degradation gives him some of the best orgasms of his life. He loves to be praised and thrives off you cry about how good he makes you feel, but calling him pathetic and saying that he could do better really gets his adrenaline going and cock hardening. Degrading him gives him something to prove, which means he'll work twice as hard to get you there.

Luke | He's not got a lot to hide, he'll either admit it or wait for you to bring it up and agree. Luke? Secrets? Barely. Yet, he's oddly quiet when it comes to receiving breast play. He loves your tits, loves his mouth smothering them, but something he's been wondering is what it would feel like if you sucked his, groped him, flicked your tongue over and pinches his nipples until his body was tingling down to his core. His cock twitches whenever you touch his chest anyway, it's sensitive and you have a touch that makes his breath hitch so maybe one day you'll have your lips wrapped around his peak, sucking and swirling until they're swollen pink, fingers rolling his nipples as you're sliding along his cock. Being a hockey player comes with long roadies, sometimes too long for him to cope and there are definitely nights where he sits in his hotel room, fisting his cock and imagining it's your hand which is where he wishes he could confess his thoughts of filming to you. He knows is a concept built on trust and comfort, but his stomach flips at the thought of watching a video of himself disappearing inside of your pussy, your voice blaring through his headphones whining and moaning out his name on a loop as he gives his cock broad strokes just as you do it. He thinks he'd feel more at home listening to your orgasm, watching himself rub his tip through your folds and cum inside you.

[moody-alcoholic]

This Is Going To Hurt

Part 3 - Useful Hostage

Summary: Poly141 x reader, established relationship, medic reader, kidnapped reader, mini fic.

CW: Dead dove don’t eat, use of weapons, death, torture, blood, assault.

AN: My birthday is on Wednesday so I'm taking a break from writing to do birthday things.

Masterlist and A03 links coming soon™ Part 1, Part 2

Enjoy <3

You actually get a break from the torture. Which means you get some sleep. Maybe it’s a thank you, but more likely they’re going to let you get your strength back up before it continues. The room you’re being held in is small, there’s only the door, no windows or vents. 

In fact you haven’t seen the sun since you were taken. You have no idea what time of day it is, how long it has been. There’s no point in trying to keep track, they purposely avoid a schedule, come for you at what seems like random times to take you to the bathroom or for more torture. 

You’re woken mid sleep and dragged back into the wetroom. That’s what you’ve started calling it, you always leave the place wet and shivering. It’s getting harder and harder to fight against your instincts and keep quiet, not panic. The safe space in your mind is getting harder and harder to imagine, it’s almost like the mental barriers you try to put up are being pulled down one by one. 

“No one is coming for you.” The stranger says, you turn your head to look at him while you gasp for air.

“You’ll die here. Alone.” You can’t help but scoff. You always knew this would happen, now they’re switching up their tactics. Maybe they’ll try and flip you, try and promise you a new life. It’s not going to work, it will never work. 

He doesn’t try the new tactic for long before switching back to the questioning. At one point you think you pass out because the next thing you know your straps have been undone and you’re rolled on your side heaving onto the floor. 

Angry voices ring in your head before you’re hauled back to your room. Everything hurts, your stomach and your lungs. The wound on your arm- you’re pretty sure is infected at this point. You can barely keep yourself up as you're thrown back into the room and the door is slammed closed. Like you have the energy to do anything right now. You pull yourself up into the corner of the room. 

Laying down just makes your stomach turn. You wish it would end. For the first time you feel your resolve slip. 

He’s right, they’re not coming for you. You’ve always known that, you just didn’t want to admit it, somewhere deep down you hoped they would come for you. You feel tears come even though you’re too exhausted to cry. 

You just hope they’re safe wherever they are.

___

“We’re in.” Soap says in Price’s ear. 

“Keep it tight, we need at least one of them alive.” Price says. This is their only chance to get intel, without having to resort to other methods. Price and Gaz move to the front door of the small house. There’s at least 5 people in here, all hostile.

Price pushes through the door first hearing Gaz following behind him, Ghost and Soap will be making their way around the ground floor so Price makes a b-line for the stairs. He looks around quickly, making sure Gaz is following him as they make it up the steps. 

They take it one room at a time. There are 2 people both sleeping. They take them out silently, hands over their mouths, their throats slit. Price takes the first one, Gaz gets the second one. 

There’s no third floor which means the last 3 are on the ground floor. 

“Ghost, sitrep.” 

“Ground floor’s clear. 2 down, one in custody.” He responds. 

“We’re clear here too.” Price responds and nods at Gaz to make it back down the stairs. When they make it into the living room, Ghost and Soap already have him tied to the chair. 

“He speaks English.” Ghost says his eyes meeting Price. They’ve done a good job, they were quick, they have what they need. 

“Yeah, beggin’ for his life when we got him.” Soap says. Price sighs walking round the chair to stand in front of the man. He shouts something in Arabic. Price’s patience is wearing thin already. He has to keep cool, keep it together. 

It’s like there’s a timer in his head though, ticking down each second, minute, hour. The longer they take, the more chance you’ll be killed. The thought makes his stomach sink, he swallows the lump in his throat and lets the adrenaline calm his mind. 

“You took a hostage. Female, British, medic, we want to know where she is.” Price says. The man's eyes flick to him, there’s blood on his forehead.

“I don’t know anything about a medic.” He says. It’s a lie, Price knows that. He nods at Ghost who throws his fist into the man's face. As Ghost straightens back up, Price watches the man spit blood. 

“The hostage. Where is she?” Price asks. 

“Fucking American pigs!” He snaps spitting at Price’s feet. Price crosses his arms looking over at Ghost, who pulls a knife off his vest. 

“The hostage!” Price snaps. The man just laughs and Price lets out a sigh. Ghost walks over and plunges the knife into his thigh. He screams thrashing against the chair, shouting in Arabic. Price goes over bending down in front of his face. 

“Tell us where she is.” He orders through gritted teeth. 

“I don’t know.” He says between breaths. Price doesn’t believe him, he has to know something. Suddenly there’s a beeping Price shoots up watching as everyone raises their weapons towards the origin of the noise. 

Soap is the closest and he moves over to the table. “It’s a laptop.” He calls lowering his weapon. 

“Bring it over.” Price says and he comes over placing it down on the coffee table. When they open it, it shows a page with a video. In the middle a chair, the backdrop is all al qatala flags, Price sees the red ‘live’ watermark flashing in the corner of the video.

“What the hell?” Gaz asks. Price reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. 

This can’t be good. 

__

The door to your cell opens, jolting you from sleep. It’s Sayyid, he has a bottle of water. You don’t even want it. 

“How are you feeling?” He asks putting the bottle down on the floor. You scoff as you move yourself back into the corner. Your body is stiff and sore, you wonder how long you were asleep for. 

“Fuck you. You don’t care.” You say. 

“I came to ask for your help.” He says, you look up at him confused. You can’t believe what you’re hearing. You laugh, maybe you’re dead and this is hell.

“There was a missile strike, injured are being brought here.” Sayyid says. 

“Oh my God you’re not joking.” You say. He looks somber as he shakes his head. You get up to your feet taking a step towards him.

“I’m not helping patch up terrorists.” You say with anger in your voice. How dare he ask you to help the very people keeping you here. 

“Innocent people are hurt too. Civilians with no affiliation. You took an oath when you became a medic. Do no harm.” He says. Fuck him, how dare he throw that in your face. 

“Fuck you!” You spit your fist crashes into his face. “I spent the last few days being tortured and you want to lecture me about not wanting to help terrorists.” 

The door to the room opens, someone steps in but Sayyid shouts at them holding his hand up. You watch as he rubs his cheek. You wish you had the energy to throw a proper punch, you wish you broke his nose. 

“Your allies are the ones firing the bombs at us!” He snaps. You shake your head, you don’t have to help them. No one would blame you. 

You look back up at Sayyid. You would blame yourself though, you will blame yourself. Do no harm, who dares wins, none of it fucking matters at the end of the day. 

You joined to help people, to make a difference. You've treated the enemy before and if you get out here you will again. You won’t treat them, the people holding you here, just the innocent people caught in the crossfire. 

“Why are civs coming here and not going to a hospital?” You ask. He looks up at you sad. “Shit, they hit the hospital.” 

Fucking Americans. Why did they fire on a hospital? Maybe it was a stray? 

“They’re diverting critical cases elsewhere but we have to pick up the rest.” 

“I can’t believe this. I’m your prisoner. Why do you even trust me?” You say throwing your arms up.

“I don’t but what are you going to do? Run? You wouldn’t make it to the door.” He says. “We need- I need help. You might as well be useful.” 

“Okay. I need to see what you’re working with though.” You say crossing your arms. He nods and moves to the side so the man standing behind him can grab you. 

His grip is strong, his fingers digging into your skin as he drags you down corridors and staircases. You catch your first glimpse of the outside world. It’s dark out, you don’t get to look for long before you’re dragged away. You’re moving deeper and deeper into the building and down more stairs. You’re pretty sure you’re on the ground floor, or a basement by now. 

You’re about to go through some double doors that you assume lead deeper into a basement. This place is huge, way bigger than you thought it was. Suddenly there’s an eruption of shouting. You’re stopped and you turn behind you to see 3 men walking towards you. They sound angry, they have weapons in their hands. 

Sayyid walks past you talking to them. He gets shoved out the way and two of them grab you. You resist this time. 

“What the hell!” You snap. You look back at Sayyid who looks confused as you’re dragged back to the stairs.

“What’s going on?” You ask as you’re pulled up them. Something's wrong, somethings changed. They shout at you in Arabic as they continue to drag you down the corridors. You’re bought into a room and it makes your stomach sink. 

There are more terrorists, all holding weapons. One of the walls is covered by al qatala flags, there’s a chair and a camera, lights and a microphone. The whole place looks like a shitty movie studio. You’re dragged over to the chair and they force you down. You have to squint and the lights are bright in your eyes. 

The two men stand directly behind you. One them presses the barrel of his weapon against the base of your skull. You feel sick, your body freezes up. You look over and you can see yourself on a laptop screen, this is live. They’re doing a livestream? Why? 

There’s no way this ends well, you wonder if 141 are watching. You hope not. 

One of the men comes up to you and hands you a piece of paper. You look down at it then back up at him. 

“Read.” He says. You swallow looking back down quickly. 

“I can’t read.” You say. You’re not going to give them what they want that easily. He hits you with the butt off his weapon, it stings forcing your head to the side. His hand then grips round your neck forcing your head up to see him. 

“Read!” He spits before letting your head go. You clear your throat and look back down at the piece of paper in your hands. 

“In response to the recent missile attacks by the Americans on civilian targets including a local hospital.” You pause for a second looking over at the laptop. The barrel of the weapon is pressed harder into your head. 

“We have no other choice but to-” Your eyes snap up at the man standing next to the laptop. This can’t be real, this is not how things work. 

You’re worth something to them, you're a hostage. You look back down at the words on the paper. Apparently not. 

“Execute the hostage.” You finish. This is it, this is how you die. You feel fear rise in you, there’s no way you can get out of this you’re dead anyway. The paper is ripped out of your hands. You look back over at the laptop. Now you really hope they’re not watching. 

The man by the laptop moves to the front of the camera and says something in Arabic. You look down at the floor, you're not sure what you're feeling. Sadness, fear, confusion.

You're about to die.

You won’t cry, you won’t give them the satisfaction. When he’s done talking he comes over and presses a pistol to your temple. 

You look into the camera, you wish you could see them one more time, the people in the room start chanting when they’re done the man moves to stand in front of you. The barrel moving to your forehead. You look at him, right in his eyes. 

See you in hell fucker, you let yourself smile. He doesn’t deserve to break you, even now. You let out a breath and think of them all, John and Simon, Kyle and Johnny. You never stopped loving them. 

There’s a loud bang of a door being thrown open. Someone shouting in arabic. The gun barrel is pulled from your forehead. The man moves and you look over to see Sayyid rush in. There are more angry voices, people shouting. You wish you knew what they were saying. 

The same man turns back around to you, you see confusion in his eyes.

“Is it true, you are part of 141?” Your stomach sinks. How did they know? You didn’t tell them. His fist crashes into your face.

“Answer!” He demands. You’re not going to say anything. He pulls out a knife pressing it up against your throat. 

You swallow and it digs into your skin. “Where are they?” He spits. You keep as still as you can, your heart is pounding in your chest. you hold your breath.

“I don’t know.” You say through gritted teeth. You feel the blade slice into your skin. It makes your eyes water. Sayyid says something again. The knife is dragged away from your neck. Your hand goes up to it and you feel blood pool between your fingers, the wound is not deep, just enough to bleed. 

You look up at Sayyid who smiles at you. What the hell? What the fuck just happened? You watch the livestream get turned off. There’s another shout, another order, the barrel of the weapon is moved off the back of your head. You feel a sharp pain as something hits you over your head and everything goes black. 

__

No one moves. No one says a word. 

Price can feel eyes digging into the back of his head, looking at the same screen they just saw you on. 

“She’ll be dead already.” The terrorist chuckles.

“John?” Price hears Laswells voice in his ear. 

“Send traffic.” He replies, trying his best to keep a level voice. 

“I traced it to a relay but that was as far as I got. Chances are you’ll be able to pick up the signal from there. I’ll send you the details.” She says. Price doesn’t reply, ending the call.

He reaches down, unclipping his pistol. He’s not even thinking as he clicks the safety off and shoots the terrorist in the head. 

“Laswell has a lead. Let's move.” he says putting his weapon back in his holster and walking to the exit.

Now they have even less time.

Banners by plum98

[batboysanonymous]

Watching, Waiting, Wanting (Extended Version)

Azriel x Reader

Summary: Azriel was never a good man, not when it came to her—his darkness, his obsession, his carefully crafted devotion was something no one, not even the Mother herself, could sever.

Continue reading below ⬇

───────────────────────────────

Y/n didn’t know he was there.

She never did.

Not really.

She moved through Velaris with a softness Azriel could never replicate. A kind of weightlessness that made him feel like he could breathe when he hadn’t even realized he’d been drowning.

She sat by her window now, curled up in an armchair with a book in her lap, one hand absentmindedly twirling a loose strand of hair. The golden glow of candlelight flickered against the glass, painting her in hues of warmth, softness—everything that was hers and hers alone.

And yet, she wasn’t alone.

She had left her window cracked. Just slightly.

An invitation. A mistake.

Azriel stood across the street, concealed by the darkness, his oldest companion. He shouldn’t be here. He told himself that every time, and yet, every night, he returned.

His little dove.

So delicate. So blissfully unaware of the wolf watching from the shadows.

He told himself it was for her safety. That he needed to ensure nothing happened to her, that Velaris was not as safe as she believed. That if he left her alone for too long, something might come along and take her from him before she even knew she belonged to him.

He was simply looking out for what was his.

She should be more careful. Should know better than to let anything in.

But he liked that she didn’t.

That she was soft in a way that let his darkness wrap around her, unseen, unheard.

That she hadn’t yet learned to fear the thing lurking just beyond her reach.

Because once she did, he would have to remind her—

Fear wasn’t necessary.

Not when it came to him.

─────

Azriel had known her for years, long before the bond snapped.

At first, she had been nothing more than a curiosity, a shift in his peripheral vision that made him look twice. He had encountered countless beautiful females in his lifetime, had trained himself not to be swayed by a pretty face or a soft smile. But her…

She was different.

It started with glances.

Fleeting moments where she felt like an anomaly, an itch beneath his skin he couldn’t quite scratch.

Then, it became more.

He memorized her routine before he even let himself admit how deeply she consumed him.

She had a habit of visiting the same café every morning, ordering tea with three sugars and just a touch of honey. She always brought a book, always tucked her hair behind her ear as she read, always tilted her head slightly when she was deep in thought.

She walked through Velaris without a care, trailing her fingers along shop windows, the rough stone walls of old buildings, the velvet-lined chairs in bookstores.

As if she needed to ground herself to the world.

She never saw his shadows.

Never flinched from them the way others did.

If anything, they curled toward her, drawn to her warmth, her light.

Like him.

And that was the moment he knew.

He wanted to be the one to keep her that way—untouched, unbothered by the horrors of reality.

But he also wanted her to see him.

Not just as the quiet male in the shadows.

But as something inevitable.

─────

It had escalated quickly.

At first, he told himself it was only coincidence.

That every time he found himself in her favorite café, in the bookstore she visited every Sunday, in the marketplace she passed through on her way home—it was chance.

But it wasn’t.

It was control.

His control.

She just didn’t know it yet.

His presence lingered in every corner of her life, woven into the spaces between her laughter and solitude. He made sure she was safe. Made sure no one got too close, no one posed a threat.

She would never have to know about the drunk male who had followed her down an alley one night, only to disappear before he ever reached her. She would never have to know about the shopkeeper who let his gaze linger too long and found his storefront mysteriously wrecked the next morning.

She would never have to know about the nightmares Azriel erased before they could ever touch her reality.

Because he would handle them all.

And he did.

─────

The bond was a mercy.

The bond was a curse.

A relief, because now he knew.

A curse, because it made his hunger insatiable.

She didn’t know yet. He hadn’t told her.

Not because he didn’t want to, but because she wasn’t ready.

She had spent years living a life without him in it, and he would not rip that away from her in one fell swoop.

No.

He would ease her into it.

Let her come to him, let her feel the pull of fate in her own time.

Because once she did, there would be no going back.

And he wanted her to accept it willingly.

To crave him the way he already craved her.

To need him.

The way he needed her.

─────

Tonight was different.

Tonight, she had made a mistake.

She had gone to dinner. With him.

Azriel knew the male wasn’t worthy.

He had watched them together, seen the way his hand had brushed over her wrist, how he had leaned too close, spoken too softly.

As if he had any right.

Azriel waited outside her townhome as the male walked her to the door, his fingers clenching as he lingered.

She was smiling.

And Azriel saw red.

His shadows writhed around him, screaming for violence, for blood, for retribution.

He let the male walk away.

For now.

It didn’t take long to find him.

The scent of her lingered on his skin. The scent of her laughter, of her soft smiles, of the warmth she had freely given.

Azriel stalked him through the empty streets, silent, patient.

When the male finally noticed him, it was already too late.

Azriel was on him in a breath, shadows wrapping around his throat, a blade pressing just below his chin.

“You will not see her again,” Azriel murmured, voice a deadly whisper.

The male stilled, his pulse hammering against the cold steel.

“I—I don’t understand—”

Azriel pressed harder, just enough to make the male’s breath hitch.

“She’s mine.”

The words sank into the silence between them, unshakable.

And then, he was gone.

But the warning was given.

If the male touched her again—looked at her again—

He wouldn’t live to regret it.

─────

Her voice was soft when she answered the phone.

“Hello?”

Azriel didn’t speak.

He just listened.

She hesitated, the silence stretching between them.

She should have hung up.

She didn’t.

She knew.

Not fully, not yet. But some small, secret part of her understood she wasn’t alone.

That something was watching.

That he was watching.

The realization made his lips curl.

He let the silence stretch, let the tension coil between them through the receiver.

Then, softly, possessively—

“I’ll see you soon, little dove.”

And he hung up.

─────

Y/n felt it before she saw it.

That unsettling prickle down her spine.

The feeling of something—someone—watching.

It wasn’t new. No, it had been there for weeks now, an ever-present ghost in the edges of her awareness. She’d tried to ignore it at first, chalking it up to paranoia, to her own mind playing tricks on her in the dead of night.

But then the signs started piling up.

The way the candle by her window flickered unnaturally some nights, as if a breeze had disturbed it—but the window was never open. The way her door, locked before she went to bed, sometimes felt…wrong when she woke. As if someone had touched the handle, pressed against the wood, lingered on the threshold.

And the phone calls.

Always silent. Always stretching long enough to make her heart pound.

She could hear it now—her heartbeat in her ears, the weight of her own breath, the pulse of something unseen tightening its grip around her world.

Still, she told herself it was nothing. That she was being ridiculous.

That she was safe.

She wanted to believe it.

And maybe she would have.

If not for the note.

──────

She found it the next morning.

A single slip of parchment, placed delicately atop the book she had left on her nightstand.

She stared at it for a long moment, her fingers hesitating before picking it up.

One sentence.

“Don’t be afraid of me. I’m what you need.”

Her breath hitched.

The ink was bold, deliberate. A declaration, not a plea.

Her first instinct was to run.

To leave, to get out of her house, to flee into the streets where she wouldn’t be alone.

But something in her made her pause.

A different kind of fear creeping up her spine.

Not of whoever had written the note.

But of what would happen if she disobeyed.

Azriel watched from the rooftop across the street, his shadows curling around him.

She had found his gift.

Her reaction was predictable—wide eyes, sharp breath, that moment of hesitation where she debated running.

But she didn’t.

His little dove was clever.

She was learning.

Good.

He had no desire to chase her.

Yet.

He had been patient. Had watched, waited, ensured she felt his presence before she ever truly saw him.

And now, the game was beginning.

Y/n carried the note with her the rest of the day.

She didn’t know why.

Perhaps some part of her wanted proof. Evidence that she wasn’t imagining things, that the slow-burning paranoia clawing its way into her bones was real.

That someone had been in her room.

And that whoever it was—

They wanted her to know it.

She almost told someone. Almost mentioned it when she ran into Feyre at the market, when Cassian joked about how exhausted she looked.

But the words stuck in her throat.

Because there was something else.

Something deeper than fear.

Something darker.

A part of her that wanted to know who it was.

Not to expose them.

But to understand why she wasn’t afraid the way she should be.

Why, when she read the note again, her skin didn’t crawl—

It burned.

──────

Azriel moved through the shadows, trailing her like a silent storm.

She was thinking about him.

He could tell by the way she bit her lip, the crease in her brow, the way she kept reaching into her pocket—fingering the note he had left.

Good girl.

She was holding onto him already.

It was only a matter of time.

Tonight, she would see him.

Not fully, not yet.

But enough.

Enough to know that running was useless.

Enough to know that she belonged to him.

──────

She felt him before she saw him.

Like always.

She had just gotten home, the door locking behind her with a quiet click. But it didn’t ease the tension in her chest, the feeling that the walls weren’t enough to keep something out.

Something had changed tonight.

The air felt heavier. Thicker.

She hesitated before pulling the curtains shut, her fingers trembling against the fabric.

And then—

A shadow moved outside her window.

Slow. Deliberate.

Her breath caught in her throat.

Not a flicker of darkness.

Not a trick of the night.

A shape.

A figure.

Standing just beyond the glass.

Watching.

Waiting.

She knew she should scream. Should run. Should do anything but what she did—

Which was step closer.

The candlelight illuminated just enough.

Just enough to catch the glint of a scarred hand pressed lightly against the windowpane.

A warning.

A promise.

She barely had time to suck in a breath before the shadows swallowed him whole, disappearing into the night as if he had never been there at all.

But he had been.

And he would be again.

Her fingers curled around the note in her pocket, heart hammering.

Not in fear.

But in anticipation.

Azriel sat in the darkness, the memory of her face burned into his mind.

She had seen him.

Not enough to run.

But enough to understand.

He was not leaving.

He was not letting go.

She would come to him soon.

Whether she meant to or not.

He smirked, whispering softly to the night.

“Don’t run, little dove. You won’t get far.”

──────

Y/n woke with a gasp.

The room was silent, but the weight pressing against her chest was suffocating, as if the air itself had thickened, filled with something unseen, something oppressive.

Her skin burned.

Not a fever. Not exhaustion.

Something deeper.

Something wrong.

She sat up, shoving the blankets away, her breath uneven, her pulse hammering against her ribs.

It was happening again.

That feeling—like she wasn’t alone, like something lurked just beyond her senses, waiting.

Her fingers clenched into the sheets, nails digging into the fabric.

This was worse than before.

Worse than the silent phone calls. Worse than the shadows shifting outside her window.

Because this time—

It was inside her.

Something inside her was fracturing, splitting open, unraveling at the seams.

And she knew.

Knew what it was.

Knew what it meant.

The bond.

It was snapping.

And she had no way to stop it.

──────

Azriel felt it the moment it happened.

The bond, taut for so long, frayed and frayed until it could stretch no more—

Finally gave.

Finally snapped.

He had been waiting for this moment.

Had anticipated it. Had prepared for it.

And yet, as it hit him like a violent storm, like a brand searing into his very soul—he almost drowned in it.

The air in his lungs vanished.

His vision blurred at the edges.

And all he could feel—

All he could taste, breathe, consume—

Was her.

Panic. Confusion. Fear.

But beneath it—beneath the terror lacing her scent—

Was the undeniable pulse of recognition.

Of need.

She was calling for him.

Whether she realized it or not.

And he was coming.

──────

Y/n stumbled to the bathroom, gripping the sink with trembling hands.

She could barely recognize herself in the mirror.

Her pupils were blown wide, her skin flushed, her lips parted as if she couldn’t get enough air.

She was shaking.

This wasn’t right.

This wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

Mates.

Azriel.

Azriel.

His name slipped into her mind like a whisper, a call, a demand.

Her chest ached at the thought of him.

Not the normal kind of ache—the kind she had pushed down for weeks, months.

No, this was worse.

It was splitting her apart, tearing into the deepest part of her, pulling her toward something she had no hope of resisting.

Her legs nearly buckled, her grip tightening on the sink.

She needed air.

She needed out.

──────

Azriel had barely given himself time to process before he was moving.

His body acted before his mind could catch up, his shadows twisting through the night, pulling him forward, faster, to her.

She wouldn’t be able to handle it alone.

Not the bond. Not him.

She had fought it, denied it, ignored the inevitable—

But she would not ignore it now.

She couldn’t.

And neither could he.

He had played the game long enough. Had given her space, let her adjust, let her dance along the edges of something she didn’t yet understand.

That time was over.

She was his.

She had always been his.

And now—

Now, she would finally know it.

──────

Y/n barely made it to the door before it blew open.

The shadows came first—pouring into the entryway like living ink, swallowing the light, wrapping around her ankles, her wrists, her throat.

And then—

Him.

Azriel.

He stepped through the threshold like a nightmare incarnate, like he had walked straight from her fears into reality.

Tall. Dark. Eyes burning with something lethal.

Something hungry.

She stumbled back.

The bond roared.

She choked on a breath, her body betraying her, heat curling deep in her stomach, her instincts screaming at her to move toward him even as her mind screamed the opposite.

“No—” Her voice wavered, hands braced behind her against the wall, nowhere to go, no escape.

His head tilted, slow.

Predatory.

“You feel it.”

Not a question. A statement.

Her heart slammed against her ribs.

He took a step forward.

She pressed harder against the wall, as if it could swallow her whole, as if it could save her from what was coming.

“I—” She shook her head, her breath shallow, her body betraying her with every second that passed. “You—”

She couldn’t get the words out.

Because he was right.

She felt it.

The tether between them, pulling, strangling, refusing to be ignored.

His eyes darkened, his scars flexing as his hands curled into fists at his sides.

“You ran from it,” he murmured, voice like velvet-wrapped steel. “You ran from me.”

She flinched.

His shadows curled tighter around her wrists, not touching—not yet.

“But you can’t anymore, can you?” he breathed.

Her throat closed.

The bond was suffocating.

Too much.

Too strong.

Her body was on fire, her vision blurring, her skin screaming for contact.

And he knew it.

His lips curled, his head tilting as he drank her in.

“You feel what I feel now, don’t you?”

His voice was low, deep, meant only for her.

She tried to deny it.

Tried to shake her head, tried to push down the sharp, desperate pull in her chest—

But she couldn’t.

And he saw it.

Saw the exact moment she broke.

Azriel moved—too fast, too sudden, too much.

His hands slammed into the wall on either side of her head, caging her in, his body pressed close enough that she could feel the heat of him, the strength, the ownership.

“You don’t have to be afraid of me,” he murmured, his breath a ghost against her lips.

Lies.

She should be.

She was.

But beneath that fear—

Was something else.

Something worse.

Because her body—traitorous, weak, his—was leaning into him.

Was giving in.

She squeezed her eyes shut, shaking.

He let her.

Let her pretend she had a choice.

But then—

Then his lips brushed against her temple, just once, just enough to send a violent shudder through her body.

“I am what you need.”

Her eyes snapped open.

Met his.

And she knew.

There was no running.

There never had been.

Not from him.

Not from this.

The bond had snapped.

And Azriel—

Azriel was never letting her go.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

Taglist: @kathren1sky_blog, @willowpains, masbt1218, @antonia002, bookishcait, fuckingsimp4azriel, @fanficscuziranout, buttermilktea11, @lilah-asteria, quiettuba

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[03den]

bits of you scattered around hamzah’s house headcanons ( gn reader )

a.n: this is still in that whole friends to fwb to lovers universe. you can read more about it here and here

for hamzah his house is his safe place, and the mess is more comforting than he’d like to admit. having your things scattered around, even though you don’t live there (yet), is just so domestic, so intimate, he wants parts of you in every room.

( at the beginning of your arrangement he clearly wants to start impressing you more and lowkey makes an effort to keep his house minimally clean—even tho you’ve already been a witness of the usual mess during your time as friends. eventually, as you keep coming over, he js ends up giving up lol )

just as you enter his home you find yourself at his kitchen, his small and bland kitchen with barely anything but a coffee machine and a microwave at the counters, some plants and a fridge. inside the cabinets where he keeps his glasses and cups, there’s your mug. and by yours i mean its one he specifically bought for you, with a corny design he knows will make you laugh and inevitably choose it for your morning coffee, after you spend the night over. he never tells you he bought them for you, that he knew you’d laugh and claim them to your use, but the more nights you come over, the more your mug collection at his house grows.

there’s also his fridge, full of photographs of his friends and random magnets he bought for fun. you appear in some of the photos with claire and chase, some others with mandy and martin, or all of you together, but hamzah also wanted some where’d it be just you and him—that, lowkey sent him into a crisis. he had this photo of you in your pajamas, slouched on his couch with blue and red near you. you were smiling lazily at the camera, and you looked so settled, so at home, hamzah couldn’t properly look at the photo without his heart going crazy for a few days. then, he was determined on showing off the photo to anyone who’d come in, but. would it be too much? would it be too real? he tests the waters by adding an ai image of the two of you first, a silly scenario of you as astronauts at the moon. when you notice and laugh hard at how stupid the image is instead of confronting him about having photos of the two of you around, he adds the one he originally meant to. now, every morning you’re at his kitchen he’s smiling from ear to ear, and you can’t figure out why.

he doesn’t cook much, not for himself, not for his friends. and at the beginning, he doesn’t cook for you either. it is by far his best skill, but he knows the basics, and how to follow the recipes. however, at some point, he gets nervous that eating the same three things every time you’re over will make the food distasteful, and he opts for cooking for you instead. you’re pleasantly surprise the first time, having expected the same tasty cup noodles, and hamzah is content. now, the groceries in his cabinets were all bought with you in mind, based on a grocery list you wrote together. your favorite snacks are tucked away on a corner of his counter, just so when you leave his bed to go get them, you don’t take much time; and the brand of soda he now buys are your favorite, stored inside the fridge near your preferred condiments.

moving onto the next room, you find yourself at the living room, spacious but messy compared to his kitchen. there’s random things laying around random places, and how he manages to function through the chaos is beyond you—though you do like how lived in it looks. with time, you also get used to it, to a point your own things start mixing with his. the latest magazine you’re reading finds itself at his coffee table, sitting above a stack of papers that are most likely important and both your mugs from this morning’s breakfast are nearby, forgotten there for a later task. during the Hot ones video he makes a point to state the magazine is yours—not that he’d have an issue reading it, he’s just secretly proud you’re comfortable enough to treat his house like your own.

at the couch, over the arm, is draped a weighted blanket he knows to be your favorite. when you had admitted mid-conversation to liking these blankets more, he made sure to have one around. its weight disassociated your conjoined bodies from the rest of the world as you cuddled together, and hamzah thinks he might prefer this ones more too.

over at the side board, where he keeps framed pictures of his friends, he has, specially framed, a couple’s trend you had both indulged in during a lazy afternoon—painting each other on canvases—except he didn’t have canvases laying around so you just did it on regular paper. you didn’t think they were anything special to get framed. the paper was all mushy from the paint, you weren’t a renaissance artist and so wasn’t he. you bet your younger cousin could do something similar to what you had done, but the way he had gone out of his way later that day to buy a colorful frame despite having some normal ones laying around made your heart swell.

at the bookshelf nearby where he has some books, pokemon figures and some other random gifs, he keeps on display little trinkets you’ve got him, little cheap things that caught your eye during an outing and just reminded you of him. hamzah felt so besotted when you told him and can’t help the cheeky smile the sight of the trinkets instantly bring him. you had also gotten a few toys for blue and red, and, although he doesn’t keep them at the bookshelf, he sends you a video of the cats playing with them every time he can.

his office is surprisingly more organized than the rest of the rooms in the house and so, respecting how he keeps his work place, you try to maintain it organized too. you’re only over there to keep hamzah some company, while he’s editing or filming a video. you stay at the bed nearby, normally paying more attention to your phone than anything else, and you can count the handful of times you had to come back to hamzah’s house to pick something you’ve left on that bed, be it a hoodie, your charger or your earbuds.

even his bathroom has evidence of your constant presence. like the purple toothbrush he bought for you, sitting besides his in a glass, after you teased him abt how you couldn’t be walking around with your toiletries every day just in case he asked you to come over. you hadn’t expect him to take you seriously, but the new and nonnomadic toothbrush was indeed useful.

you were incredibly comfortable with one another, you realize, and so did your common friends who started joining in on the ‘you have to move in with him atp’ jokes you had with hamzah. that kinda caught you off guard the first time it happened, like you had forgotten they also acknowledged the bits of you around his house. you wondered if hamzah would warn them not to use your towel, folded and tucked besides his; or your shampoo, resting inside his shower. it was the one he worshiped the brand because ‘it made your hair smell so good’. you wondered how much did your friends notice.

you just hoped they didn’t frequent his bedroom often—not that you’d truly have a problem w it, it was just lowkey embarrassing, given it was the room you left the messier, and the one hamzah felt like you were truly everywhere. a pile of your clothes was mixed with his on his bed, and you still had some other pieces hanged inside his closet. one of the pillows was very obviously not his, as it had a pretty identifiable pillowcase, that just screamed you, and the photo strip of both of you, sitting at his bedside table, also didn’t help your case.

but you weren’t going to complain if they did notice everything as much as you did. in a way it felt good that other knew that, even tho hamzah likes his house, he likes it more with you around.

i thought abt dividing this post into two bc its so long, but then i remembered those annoying storytelling tiktoks that always have like 28 parts and made myself sit and finish writing this 😭

[justcat-judging]

₊ ⊹ 𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐞 𝐎𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐞! ⊹ ₊

˚ʚY/N told them her ideal type which was the complete opposite of them. ɞ˚

˚ʚKaiser Micheal x Reader, Ness Alexis x Reader(seperate)ɞ˚

˚ʚpt.5, pt.1, pt.2, pt.3, pt.4ɞ˚

---

₊ ⊹ 𝐊𝐚𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐫 𝐌𝐢𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐥 ⊹ ₊

You and Kaiser are hanging out after practice, his usual self-absorbed chatter filling the air while you scroll through your phone.

“So, what’s your type?” he asks, that smug grin creeping across his face.

You glance up, pretending to think. “Hmm… I like guys who are quiet, humble, and down-to-earth. Maybe a little shy. Definitely not someone who’s always showing off.”

Kaiser freezes. His smirk falters for just a moment before he leans in, eyes narrowing. “You’re really gonna sit here and tell me that’s your type?”

You nod, keeping a straight face. “Yeah, I think it’s cute. Totally my type.”

Kaiser lets out a low, incredulous chuckle. “That’s funny. You’ve been hanging out with me for weeks now, and I’m anything but humble. You’re full of shit.”

You raise an eyebrow. “What can I say? I like a challenge.”

He laughs, loud and confident. “A challenge? Babe, you don’t have to look any further. I’m exactly what you want. I’m the best, and you know it.”

You roll your eyes, trying to keep the grin from spreading. “Sure, whatever you say, Kaiser.”

His smile widens, fully aware of what he’s doing. “Admit it. You’re hooked on me. I’m exactly your type—you just don’t want to say it yet. But I’m already in your head.”

You snicker, finally giving in. “Fine. You’re right. Michael Kaiser is my type.”

He leans back, arms crossed, looking utterly victorious. “I knew it. You don’t need to hide it. No one can resist me.”

₊ ⊹ 𝐍𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐀𝐥𝐞𝐱𝐢𝐬 ⊹ ₊

You and Ness are sitting on the benches after practice, him leaning a little too close as usual. His eyes are practically glued to you, that dreamy smile never wavering.

“So… what’s your type?” he asks, tilting his head like a puppy waiting for praise.

You pretend to think, tapping your chin. “Hmm… I guess I like guys who are really serious, kind of intimidating. The quiet, brooding type who doesn’t let anyone get too close.”

For a moment, Ness just stares at you, blinking. Then, to your surprise, his cheeks turn red, and a tiny, breathy laugh escapes him.

“Oh,” he mutters, almost giddy. “So… someone who would completely ignore you? Push you away? Maybe even be a little mean?”

You narrow your eyes. “Uh… yeah?”

His smile widens. “That sounds kinda nice.”

You blink. “What.”

Ness sighs, pressing a hand to his chest dramatically. “Imagine… the person you love looking down on you, refusing to acknowledge you, barely giving you the time of day… ahh, my heart aches just thinking about it.”

You gape at him. “Ness. That’s not—”

He suddenly grabs your hand, squeezing it tight. “But I love a challenge! If that’s what you want, I’ll just have to make you fall for me harder!”

You groan, finally laughing. “Ness, I was messing with you! That’s not my type at all!”

He blinks. “Oh?” Then, without missing a beat, he leans in closer, voice dropping. “So… does that mean you do like me?”

You roll your eyes. “Maybe I’d like you more if you weren’t so weird.”

Ness only grins, unbothered. “Ohh, so you do like me a little! That’s enough for me!”

You sigh, shaking your head. There’s no winning against this guy.

(Guys I think this is enough to feed you all.. I think I shall end this already)

[prael]

Conciliation

ILLIT Moka x Yunah // part 2 to Punishment

words: 6,035 Masterlist

Two weeks have gone by. Two weeks since the incident in their dorm room. For Yunah, it's as though that night never happened. It was just some afterthought that had been shoved down in the deep corners of her memory, as though she would sooner forget and have Moka pretend it was nothing at all.

Moka thinks of nothing else.

She thinks about it in her classes, daydreaming when she should be practising. Rehearsals have become a stop-start procedure, with everyone turning to Moka with the same question: are you okay? She feels so pathetic. Embarrassed at herself, but still thinking, wondering, wishing, that maybe tonight might be that night; that Yunah might snap at some point and give her just a single touch.

She's thought about doing it again, just the same way, touching herself while Yunah is around. Even the mere idea has Moka wet with shame. It would work, surely, it has to work. Then Moka talks herself out of it. Doing it again, trying to instigate a reaction, she may as well just confess, beg, and plead with Yunah. Admit that she likes her. Tell her just how crazy it makes Moka when she walks around the room in only a t-shirt and panties. When she shakes her hair loose out of a ponytail, her brunette hair cascades in the moonlight, looking so soft and thick, and Moka can't get over her.

They're on their way out of the country, for another big show. Another sleepless night spent travelling. Another opportunity for Yunah to glare at Moka when she's obviously not focused or too busy stumbling through her moves. Another opportunity for her to sit there, only her and her dirty, little thoughts.

There's a slight turbulence, enough to make the sleeping Yunah move in her seat, her head rolling to the side. She looks peaceful and beautiful. That same fringe she's so particular about always ends up in her eyes, so naturally, Moka wants to reach up and push it away, but she forces herself back, that's the last thing she wants; to wake her and look suspicious.

"Not sleeping?" A voice from the other side, makes Moka tear her eyes away from Yunah and find Minju. Minju gives a curious look at Yunah before returning her gaze to Moka.

"Can't sleep," Moka confesses with a sigh.

Minju doesn't reply at first, the look she is giving, makes Moka believe she is contemplating whether she should share or not. "Me neither. Keep thinking about tomorrow."

Moka hums a vague affirmative in response. She wants to appear agreeable and that she isn't preoccupied with the thoughts of someone else.

Minju gives her a wry smirk. "What about you? You keep spacing out."

Her question strikes a chord in Moka. For some reason, she can't deny it or lie about what's been going through her head, and even when she should probably deny it, Moka still finds herself talking about her. "Have you ever liked someone who hated your guts? Like so much it physically hurts," Moka can't help the questions slipping past her lips. It's pathetic really. She should know better, and she knows she's saying too much and too openly, but it's not her fault. She just can't handle it all, not for another minute.

"Are you saying there's a guy you like?" Minju asks, which at least offers Moka the reassurance that the others haven't realised what's going on; why else would she ask that? "You know we're not allowed to date anyone, Moka."

"I know, and I'm not going to date anyone, but I can still like someone, right?"

Minju laughs. "Yeah, you can do what you like," she replies while stealing another look at the older girl across from them, sleeping. "So why does he hate your guts then?"

"Well, I—"

Yunah sighs, breaking the conversation as the pair suddenly falls quiet. They freeze like deer caught in the headlights of a car as Yunah, shifts in her seat, adjusting her position before relaxing again. There is a relief between them, letting out a heavy breath at the realisation that their friend is still very much asleep.

"Lucky her," Minju finally says, shaking her head. "I can't wait for us all to be back in our hotel rooms and having some proper sleep." Minju sighs, turning back to Moka. "You were saying?"

"Oh, it's nothing. Don't worry about it, forget I said anything," Moka rambles. She finds herself silently cursing herself. If the truth of her desires slipped and spilt out, there's no telling what kind of trouble she would be in. But Minju looks at her in a strange sort of understanding, nodding and giving her a reassuring smile.

Moka returns the sentiment and lays her head on her friend's shoulder. Her heartbeat starts to slow down, and as time passes, sleep draws in, luring her into its clutches, and at last, her eyelids flutter shut.

-

It's 4 am and they're shambling into the hotel lobby, weary, eyes burning, muscles tired, with sore shoulders and legs.

"We've booked rooms for you all. We just went with the same arrangement as the dorm," the manager explains, sending Moka's heart crashing. She and Yunah. Of course. She nods weakly and trudges to the lift alongside her members.

Yunah opens the door, and Moka follows. They haven't spoken a word to each other. The moment the hotel door is closed, and Moka drops her bag on the floor, Yunah takes off her jacket, hanging it on a hook. Moka slips her shoes off, trying her hardest not to make eye contact.

"Moka?"

Fuck. Why couldn't she just walk past without saying anything? Moka's cheeks feel hot. Why now? She glances up, and the look she receives from Yunah doesn't give anything away.

"What's gotten into you? Are you sick?" She snaps, walking right up to her. A rough hand takes hold of her chin, forcing her face up and it shocks Moka so much that it knocks her off her axis for a moment.

There she is. Again. So close. It takes a moment, or three, to figure out what she even said. Moka goes to shake her head, but with her face being held so firmly in place, it's impossible. "No, I'm fine." She swallows. "Just a little nervous."

"Why are you lying to me?"

Her face is still gripped, she's forced to keep eye contact with her and she hates it. She hates that her skin prickles as Yunah's beautiful gaze pours down.

"Whatever," Yunah says incredulously, her hand holding Moka's jaw. Moka nods as best as she can and then she's released. She misses her touch the moment Yunah's hand is gone and she's left to drop her head. "We can't have you being distracted tomorrow. Just get it together."

The older girl retreats into the bathroom, closing the door and leaving a disgruntled Moka alone. She could scream, but instead, she swallows down her frustration.

Moka undresses and slips into her shorts and tank top. She flops onto the soft covers and waits. Curses and empty wishes run through her mind; her fist tightens into a frustrated ball and her eyebrows furrow. How is she supposed to do anything like this? How can she think about anything other than her?

Soon, Yunah returns, but all Moka gets from her is silence, nothing, absolutely nothing, and yet here she is, lying and waiting. Pathetic, it's downright fucking pathetic. She takes a deep breath and lets herself turn and stare at her back. "Yunah?"

"What?"

"Why did you make me feel good?"

"You talk about that like it meant something," Yunah responds, turning her attention away from her phone. Her beautiful hair fans out against the pillow.

"Did it?"

Yunah responds with her own question, "Did you want it to?"

"Yeah."

"Sorry." She turns her attention back to her phone, effectively dismissing her and the conversation altogether.

"Please—"

"Goodnight, Moka," Yunah bites. Her tone leaves no more room for discussion. No room for questioning.

Moka clamps her mouth shut, squeezing her eyes tightly closed. What more could she say? How many ways could she plead with her before it becomes demeaning? But the silence in her room makes the ache between her thighs feel unbearable and impossible to ignore.

It's nearly an hour later when Moka gives in, dipping her hands between her legs. She rubs against the front of her shorts and shudders as she teeters on the brink of losing her senses and giving in to her desires. But the bed shifts, the sheets move, and she stops.

Yunah rolls over and she looks at Moka, as though expecting her to do something, anything. The eye contact alone has Moka feeling so small and helpless.

"Do it," Yunah whispers.

"W-what?"

"I know you want to. These past weeks you've been so distracted. I know you're always thinking of it, of what happened, what I did. I see the way you look at me."

"I... I'm sorry."

Yunah rolls her eyes. "Just do it."

"But you hate it. It makes you uncomfortable, I can't—" Yunah cuts Moka off as she moves closer, she slips her fingers past the waistband of Moka's shorts, down to the wet warmth of her cunt. "Yunah," she whimpers. Moka bites her lip to hold in the noises, but it's impossible to stay silent as Yunah runs teasing touches over her lips, threatening to slip between them.

"You can't do it, can you? Not on your own, not since I've touched you." She says it so plainly that Moka can't help but agree. She knows the truth. "But you don't want to ask for my help because you know I'll just say no. So here I am, doing it for you." Yunah's finger slides between Moka's lips and runs up to her clit. It makes Moka gasp. "Think about why that is. Why would I want to help you?" she murmurs as her fingers circle the hard, little nub.

"I don't know." The words are barely audible.

"I think you do," Yunah says and then her fingers go away.

"No, don't stop."

"I know it's hard, Moka," Yunah whispers. Her fingers are back. They're running through the lips of Moka's cunt, sliding easily, making the skin slick and sensitive. Moka can hardly think as the fingers run up and down, stroking and teasing, edging closer to the opening. "But I need you to say it."

"Because," Moka chokes out. Her head is spinning, and she feels so dizzy. She can hardly form a single thought. All she knows is how good she feels, how desperate she is for those fingers. "You like making me feel good. Because you want it just as bad."

"Because I want it, Moka," Yunah whispers, pushing a single finger into Moka's tight entrance. It sinks in so deep and she moans. She's so fucking sensitive. The feeling of the finger as it enters and stretches her, the feeling as it curls inside, the way it moves slowly and deliberately, is enough to have her trembling. Yunah has to lean in and put her mouth by Moka's ear. "I can't get the fucking thought of you out of my head."

"Oh god."

The words have the desired effect and Yunah's hand moves faster, the thrusts come harder and Moka is completely helpless. Her body starts to arch, her back rises off the mattress and her chest is pulled upwards as if offering herself to the other girl. Her little chest rises, her nipples hardening under the material of her top. Yunah looks at her body and smiles. She pushes a second finger inside, her thumb begins to work her clit and Moka's hands are holding tight to the pillow behind her.

Moka doesn't care that she's moaning, or that she can't stop saying her roommate's name. All that she cares about is how her body is starting to clench, how her hips are bucking and how her legs have gone so rigid, and it's just the best feeling, the best thing that she's ever experienced in her life. Moka opens her eyes and finds Yunah staring. Her face is so close; Moka wants her closer.

She has the overwhelming desire to taste Yunah's lips, but not the strength to pull her down, so she settles for the fingers inside of her and the hand that keeps working her cunt until the orgasm comes.

Moka pulls the pillow tight around her head, muffling the sound that spills from her mouth. She feels her walls tightening around Yunah's digits, her entire body clenching and shaking, and her eyes rolling back. She's so close.

Yunah climbs over her, kneeling between her slender thighs and her fingers never leave. They're so deep. The pressure is too intense. She feels the walls inside of her start to tighten, the heat growing inside her. Moka's head turns and buries into the pillow she holds onto for dear life.

"Look at me, Moka," she coos, leaning into her. "I said look at me."

Yunah takes Moka's hand, prying it away from the pillow. Powerless to resist, Moka's arm is pushed above her head, and then the other. They're placed together, held under Yunah's grasp and Moka's head is free and forced to look at the beautiful woman on top of her, forced to see those deep brown eyes and that gorgeous hair, that pretty face with the full lips, the perfect lips, the ones Moka wishes were pressed against her. But that would be too much. Moka would never want anything more ever again. If she kisses her then it's game over, all she would ever need would be right here. Moka could never think about anyone or anything other than her, ever again.

Moka's stomach tightens, and her face contorts. She lies there helplessly as she is overcome, and the climax hits. She can't help it. She's moaning so loudly and she's clenching around Yunah's fingers. Her legs shake and her arms try to pull themselves away, to have something to cling to. But she can't move. All Moka can do is give into the pleasure. It washes over her, the sensation coursing through her body, making her toes curl.

She leaks messily onto Yunah's hand. The sounds of wetness fill her ears, the lewd, squelching noises as the fingers continue to work her pussy, fucking her through the high and prolonging the sensation until her mind blanks, her body convulses and her voice breaks into a pathetic whine. Moka's head thrashes back and forth, and she's crying, sobbing out loud.

She's left panting, chest heaving as she looks at Yunah who's smiling. That beautiful smile, the one she loves to see.

"You're so pretty when you cum, Moka." She says it most sweetly, and her eyes seem so sincere. Moka wants to kiss her more than ever, and she wants Yunah to feel good too, just like she did. But her body feels like jelly and she can barely move. So she can only lay there and try to catch her breath.

Yunah lowers, laying her head on Moka's chest, her ear pressing gently to her heart, as though listening to it. Her body still twitches and shakes and her legs remain spread with Yunah still nestled between them. Moka tries to calm herself, and she can feel Yunah's breathing slow and soften, her weight shifting on top of her.

"I'm sorry, Moka. For ignoring you, but I knew this would happen. I knew that once I gave in, I wouldn't be able to stop," she murmurs. Moka can only manage a hum in reply. She doesn't even understand what Yunah means, not really, she can barely understand her words. Yunah puts her hand on her waist and slips her own pyjama shorts over her hips and down her long legs. She kicks them off and they're left tangled up at the foot of the bed.

It's when Yunah raises her head from Moka's chest that Moka realises what's happening. Yunah slips her fingers into the waistband of her shorts, pulling them down and off of her legs and throwing them aside. Moka feels so exposed. She can't hide the fact she's blushing, that she's so nervous, that this is what she's been waiting for, what she's wanted.

Yunah pulls her own shirt over her head and throws that off the bed too, and now Moka's staring. Tight and toned. Perky. It's like she can't help but let her eyes roam. She's the most perfect girl in the world. Moka's hands reach up to her, running along the curves of Yunah's body, the smoothness of her skin. Her thumbs brush over her nipples, feeling them harden and rise.

Yunah sighs, and Moka wants to make her do that again. She wants to hear all her pretty noises, just like Yunah said she loved hearing hers. So, she sits up and her hands go around Yunah, holding onto her, bringing her closer. She's so tall. Moka's face presses into her chest and she breathes against her, feeling the heat and inhaling the sweet scent of her.

Moka is so nervous. So anxious that she will do something wrong. She has to force herself to lift her head and part her lips, to lean forward and place her mouth over the stiff, little peak on Yunah's breast. She sucks, pulling it in, feeling the way it moves, the way Yunah lets out a breath and the hand that comes up to her hair. Fingers run through her black locks, nails drag along her scalp, and Moka moves her head to the other, repeating the motion, sucking the skin, flicking her tongue over it and pulling it with her lips.

Yunah moans and the grip tightens, she holds her head, and the other arm wraps around Moka. Reassurance in the form of a touch. It tells her she's doing well, that Yunah's liking it. That's all that matters. Moka wants her to like it, she wants to please her, and she wants to know how to make her feel good. She smiles against her smooth skin, placing kisses, licks, and bites all over her. Appreciation for this girl and her beautiful, wonderful body.

Then Moka finds herself lying on her back. Yunah climbs on top of her and Moka's heart thuds hard against her chest. This is everything she's wanted.

"Don't freak out," she whispers, her breath against Moka's face.

"Never."

Yunah shifts her weight and then Moka feels it, the wet heat of Yunah's cunt against hers, and the sensation of her body on hers. Moka looks down at their bodies and can see the point of their connection, where their skin meets. The sight of it alone makes her mouth go dry, her stomach flips, and it takes all her strength to keep herself together. And then Yunah rocks her hips, grinding against Moka, her slick pussy rubbing against Moka's. The sensation of her skin moving, her wetness, it makes Moka's eyes roll back.

"Yunah..." Moka gasps, her body arching, and Yunah pushes her down.

She does it again, and again, sliding against her, pushing her hips hard. Her breathing is growing faster, and heavier, and her moans are so quiet. Sparks ignite in her lower body. The pressure, the heat. It feels so good to have Yunah against her like that.

Yunah leans down and buries her face in the crook of her neck and she kisses and nibbles at her skin there, whispering against the spot. "Why does this feel so good?"

"I don't know," Moka gasps. She's losing her breath already. She's panting and she feels so hot and dizzy, but in the best possible way.

Yunah can't hold back, she can't hide the fact that Moka makes her lose her control. This cute, petite little thing below her; with her innocent, big brown eyes, and her adorable smile, that makes Yunah want to melt, she's her weakness. Moka, who she heard so many times, night after night. Moka, who she's ignored and tried to put from her mind, but can't. And now she has her. She has her little Moka beneath her, squirming and panting and whining, and Yunah's hips can't help but rut down into her.

Yunah can't get enough of it. Moka's pussy feels so soft and warm against her own. The slick mess that grows between them, it's addicting. The sounds are even worse. She wants to make more. She wants Moka to scream.

All the confusion Yunah once felt has vanished, and in its place, a sense of belonging, a feeling that she has to do this. That she's supposed to be in this bed with Moka and no one else. She never understood it. She was scared to admit it. But now there is nothing else she could ever ask for.

Yunah takes Moka's hand, interlocking fingers and squeezing. It's reassuring, and Moka's grip on her hand is strong, it tells Yunah she's feeling the same way.

"Moka."

"Yes," Moka answers.

Yunah looks down at the younger girl. Moka's face is contorted with pleasure, her lips are parted, and she's breathing so hard. She's completely lost to her sensations, and the sight makes Yunah's heart flutter, her skin burns and her body feels weak. "Moka," she whispers again. This time Moka's eyes open, looking straight at her. Their gazes lock and their fingers squeeze. "I like you."

"I like you too." Moka's smile is the most beautiful thing Yunah has ever seen, it triggers an instinct to fuck her harder. Moka's hand snaps to Yunah's hip and holds her tightly. She's moaning louder now. She can't hide it.

The bed creaks, the headboard hitting the wall. The sheets become tangled. They're sweaty and panting, and Moka's moans grow more desperate by the second.

Yunah can't stop herself any longer. Her stomach tenses tight, her body is on the verge of breaking and she can't take much more. "Moka," she calls her name, she's saying it so desperately. "Fuck, I'm going to cum." She can't hold on. Moka feels too good. Everything about this moment is perfect. It feels so right. Yunah can feel her own pussy twitch, she's getting closer to that edge. She can hear Moka whine, she's almost there. She wants Moka to finish. She needs it. "Cum with me."

"I want it, please Yunah. Please make me cum."

Yunah grinds harder. Moka's moans are so pretty. They fill her ears and they're the only sound in the room. They're music, they're the most perfect thing she's ever heard and the best song Moka has ever sung.

Yunah feels Moka's fingers tighten on her hip as she bucks her own up to meet Yunah's thrusts, and the sensation overwhelms them both. They cling to each other, both bodies trembling as the climax washes over them. Moka cries out, and it's loud. She doesn't even try to muffle herself as she squeezes Yunah's hand, and her hips jolt against hers. Yunah's face buries itself in Moka's neck, groaning into the skin, kissing, biting and sucking as the heat consumes her and her mind blanks, the pleasure takes over.

They lay there for what feels like forever, panting, their hearts thumping in their chests, the sound filling their ears.

It's then that Yunah looks up, pulling her head away. She looks down at Moka. Moka, her Moka, staring back up at her with her big eyes. The most gorgeous girl she's ever met. Her skin is so smooth and flawless. Her little nose, her cute lips, and the black, messy hair splayed on the pillow behind her, framing her face like a painting.

"Moka."

"Yunah."

Yunah leans down, pressing their foreheads together and Moka smiles, she can feel it against her face. Their breaths mingle and their hearts are so close, and Moka is holding onto her.

"I shouldn't have," Yunah pants, "shouldn't have lied to myself. Shouldn't have tried to ignore this."

"It's okay."

"No, it's not okay." She can feel Moka's lips brushing against hers. They're so close. It's just a little movement to close the distance between them, but Moka does it. She pushes her head up, and then Yunah's lips part. She kisses her and Yunah can't help but kiss her back, her tongue slipping into her mouth. Their tongues swirl and slide. Moka moans against her lips. The sound sends shivers down her spine. And Yunah wants her. She wants her so bad.

Moka is panting when Yunah breaks the kiss.

"It's okay now," Moka whispers, her breath ghosting over her. Yunah feels so weak. She's completely helpless.

"I think we need to talk about some stuff. But not now, not right now."

"No, not now," Moka replies with a giggle, leaning up and stealing another kiss.

Yunah gives her a lazy smile, brushing a stray hair behind her ear. She rolls onto her back, lying next to Moka, their legs still half-tangled. They lie in a comfortable silence. It feels so natural and normal as if it were always supposed to happen, that they were always meant to end up here. Yunah turns and looks at her, watching Moka stare at the ceiling.

"Is it weird that I want to do it again?" Yunah asks.

"Probably," Moka answers. She looks at her, grinning, "But so do I."

-

Thirty minutes later and Yunah finds herself mounted over Moka's face.

She's on her knees, straddling the girl, and the tip of her tongue is tracing patterns against her cunt. She's writing out love letters with her tongue. Signs her name on her clit and makes her legs shake.

Yunah braces, flat-palmed against the wall and throws her head back as she cries out Moka's name, grinding her pussy against the tongue. Sensitive and overused, yet still she wants this. She has to. It's not an option at this point. She's going to ride her until she can't possibly take anymore.

There's no coming back from this. There is only this, them, this room. The whole world has fallen away. It doesn't matter.

Moka is all that matters.

The warm tongue pushes past her lips and sinks into the soft heat, tasting her from the inside. She's moaning into Yunah's cunt, sending the most beautiful vibrations against her and Yunah is so fucking sensitive. Her thighs are shaking and she feels weak, she's struggling to hold herself up, but she can't bring herself to get off her.

"Your tongue, fuck," Yunah moans. The wet tongue laps at the mess, licking up her slick. Yunah can feel Moka swallowing, gulping her down, her little noises growing louder as she feasts. She's going to cum all over that pretty face. She's going to ruin Moka's perfect features and make them shine. Yunah is so close. She can't stop herself from thrusting forward. Her pussy is aching for more, throbbing as Moka eats her. She needs this, wants this.

"Moka... I can't stop, please don't stop," Yunah pants, pushing herself back onto her. Moka grips Yunah's thighs and digs her nails into them. "Fuck!" Yunah squeals. Her hips jerk forward. It's happening. It's too much. Moka's tongue won't stop, it swirls inside of her, and Yunah's legs are trembling.

Her thighs close tight around Moka's face, trapping it between her legs and her back arches, her mouth open, her voice hoarse and broken as she cums, and the walls inside of her clench tight.

And Moka is still eating her out. Yunah can feel the hot mess dripping from her pussy. She feels so sensitive. She can barely stand it, and her body twitches and spasms, and her heart pounds so hard. Her mind blanks. She's so tired, her body aching and exhausted, but her pussy still wants more.

"Yunah," Moka calls to her, patting her thigh and bringing her back from the brink of collapse, "Yunah, I can't breathe." Her little, muffled pleas have her snapping back to reality, realising that Moka's face has gone bright red. Yunah shifts, and she watches the way the girl gasps for air.

"Fuck, Moka." Yunah climbs from her and collapses beside her, chest heaving, sweat coating her skin. "Are you alright?"

Moka doesn't respond at first. She lays there, taking a breath and then she's turning, moving and climbing onto Yunah. "More than alright."

Yunah smiles at her, a sleepy smile that makes Moka blush, and she reaches up to push her black hair from her eyes. Her pretty little eyes are half-lidded and glazed, and her cheeks are rosy and flushed. Lips wet, with Yunah's arousal, it might be the hottest thing she's ever seen. "You're so pretty."

Moka giggles, a bashful laugh as she looks away. "Stop it."

"No," Yunah whispers with a smirk that she knows Moka likes. "I won't."

She flips Moka over and the girl lands with a yelp, a surprised and adorable little sound. She takes her liberties, to kiss and to bite, to suck her skin. Yunah is marking her. Deep kisses on her neck, bites that make Moka's body flinch and writhe, and her little noises are like the prettiest melody in the world. "So pretty," she repeats. "All mine."

Yunah moves down her body, her kisses trailing and leaving little bruises. She sucks her nipples into her mouth, swirling her tongue, sucking and nibbling on the stiff peak and making Moka's body buck up. Her mouth goes to the underside of her breasts, to the flat expanse of her stomach. She sinks her teeth in and Moka is whining. Her back is arched, her head pushed back and she's gripping the sheets, and Yunah is getting closer and closer to her destination. "My pretty girl," she murmurs into the smooth skin.

"Yunah," Moka whines and Yunah looks up, finding her staring, biting her lip. Her eyes are wide and desperate, pleading.

She lifts Moka's leg and kisses the back of her thigh. The younger girl is so sensitive. Her skin shivers as Yunah's mouth moves closer to her core. "Once we're home, Moka, I want to fuck you. Like really fuck you, hard, fast. I've seen those videos. What you watch when you're on your own." Moka squeals and her face goes crimson. She covers her head with a pillow. Yunah can't help the smile as she continues, "I want to do those things with you. One of those strap-ons. You'll look so pretty taking it."

Yunah kisses the girl's clit and Moka's entire body flinches. A hand shoots to Yunah's hair and grabs tight, holding onto the locks. She smiles against her, teasing her pussy, her mouth kissing and sucking on the lips of her cunt. "You can do anything you want to me," Moka gasps. Yunah can't help the laugh that slips out, a laugh of amusement and happiness, and Moka is squirming.

"You're gonna have to be more specific than that." Yunah kisses the mess from her lips, and Moka lets out the cutest, most frustrated noise, her hips lifting and her back arching.

"You can use me."

Yunah stops for a second. She raises her head and finds Moka looking at her. There is a blush to her cheeks and she looks embarrassed, and maybe even a little shy, but that glint in her eye is undeniable.

Yunah lowers herself, pressing a soft kiss to Moka's inner thigh. She takes her time, making a show of it, and Moka's breathing is getting heavier, more impatient. "Yeah?" She kisses her again. "Let me bend you over?" Another kiss. "Hold your face down on the bed while I fuck you?"

"Please," Moka whines, "Yes, yes."

"What else?" Yunah's eyes flick up. Moka's chest is rising, falling, rising.

Moka whines again. She throws her head back. Her body trembles. Yunah kisses her cunt. It's a deep kiss. It has Moka's hips bucking against her lips. "You can be rough with me," she finally manages, her voice breathy.

"Rough?" Yunah's eyebrow arches. She dips her tongue past the wet entrance and laps at Moka's heat. The girl's body is writhing against her mouth and Yunah can't help the muffled giggle. She's so cute like this, so easy to tease. Moka is panting. Her face is contorted in a desperate need for more, for release.

"If you want to," she mumbles, and Yunah is so tempted to tease her further. But Yunah is just as eager. She is so desperate for more of her taste, her body, her scent.

"Maybe," she whispers against the wet lips, "maybe, I'd rather be soft with you." Yunah sinks two fingers into her tight, wet hole. Moka gasps, and then moans. Yunah's mouth latches to the little nub of her clit, sucking it and swirling her tongue. The fingers thrust into her and curl. The walls tighten and tremble. "Take my time, fuck you slowly."

Yunah starts a slow rhythm with her fingers. Moka is whimpering, moaning and trying to buck into the fingers. But Yunah is stronger. Her free hand grabs the younger girl's thigh and forces her down, keeping her still and making her accept the pace.

"Slowly," Yunah repeats, "So slow you'll think it's torture. And I won't let you cum, not for a long time, until you can't bear it anymore." She kisses the skin, kisses her pussy, and then looks at Moka who's staring. She's flushed, her eyes wide and needy, her lips parted, and her body is trembling. "Until your little body is begging for release." She pushes another finger into Moka. She can feel the tightness around her digits and the way she throbs.

"Oh fuck," Moka moans.

"Or maybe I'll fuck you hard and fast." Yunah pushes down hard on Moka's thigh, and the pace picks up, the fingers slamming in and out. The lewd, wet sounds that Moka makes are enough to drive her crazy, the sloppy, messy sounds that come with every thrust and the sight of Moka's pussy, spread wide, stretched and accepting everything she's given, it has Yunah's head spinning. She feels delirious, high off of the pleasure she can give this pretty girl. "Hard, fast. Pound your pussy and make your entire body ache. Make you scream, make you beg me to stop because you can't handle anymore."

Moka's throat strains, and her body tenses. "I can't," Moka moans and Yunah can feel her pussy twitching, clenching around the digits inside of her. So easily does she cum against Yunah's fingers, and she's crying out, loud, without restraint. She doesn't even try to hold it back, and she's so wet. Her cum is leaking out, soaking her fingers, and it's the hottest thing Yunah has ever seen. She can't take her eyes away. She can't look anywhere but the way that Moka is cumming against her fingers.

She curls her fingers a little more and moves a little faster. The flow of cum becomes stronger, and Yunah can't stop the groan that leaves her. "Fuck." Moka's body is thrashing, she's whining and whimpering, and then it sprays a little, her cum, squirting from her and soaking her hand, her arm, the sheets. It leaks and sprays, it's the hottest thing she's ever seen, and Moka's body is spasming. Her hips are bucking and the moans sound so pretty.

And then Moka goes limp, she collapses onto the mattress and pants. She's staring up at the ceiling and her body is still trembling and shaking. Cum still leaking out and staining the sheets. All she sees are stars; pretty, beautiful stars.

"I'll never get tired of seeing you do that," Yunah murmurs as she pulls her soaked hand away.

"Shut up." Moka giggles and pulls her hands to her face. She covers her blushing face. "It's so embarrassing," she mumbles into her palms.

Yunah laughs, climbing from between her legs and lying next to her. Moka turns, lying on her side. "It's not," she whispers, "it's hot." Yunah runs her hand up Moka's bare thigh. Her hand slides to her ass and gives it a gentle squeeze. "Really hot."

[mediumgayitalian]

"Don't worry about me."

"I'm allowed to worry for people when they are doing stupid, foolish things."

"You worry about everyone."

"False. I've never worried about Cecil Markowitz a day in my life."

Nico snorts, tugging on his boot and yanking on the laces. "Right," he drawls, "and the insistence on walking him fourteen entire fucking miles to the bus stop at the end of camp was because..."

Will flushes. "Because he's stupid, okay. He's actually unwell. I checked his brain and everything. If I leave him alone too long he'll get kidnapped, and then what?" He cocks a hip to one side, crossing his arms and tapping his foot and generally just looking like a carbon copy of his mother. Nico mourns his lack of camera. He needs to send Naomi another snapshot for the Wall of You Do Act Like Me, You Little Shit. "What am I gonna do if he dies, huh? Resort to off-brand Twizzlers? I'd rather kill myself."

The frayed ends of his laces cooperate, finally. He desperately needs new combats but the thought of having to break in a new pair makes him want to strangle the nearest karpoi. Any one of them would do.

Nico pushes himself to his feet, cupping both sides of his boyfriend's scowling face and pressing a gentle kiss to his lips, holding there until he feels them soften. He smiles, snickering at Will's huffy pout.

"I am doing one errand," he says, exasperated. "Just one."

Will throws his hands up. "You know who else did one errand?! Orpheus! That's right, dumbass, and he died! So!"

He waves his hands again, because obviously he cannot simply make his point with his words alone. Oh, no. His whole body needs to get involved, or else there is Not Enough Emphasis.

Gods, Nico loves him to death.

To death, and then some.

"You are more dramatic than your father," Nico says, kissing him again before pulling away. "You know that?"

"I thought you loved me," Will grumbles. "I thought you loved me, and then you go around saying such insulting things. Don't you love me? People who love me would never say that to me."

"I have actually heard that exact speech come from Apollo's mouth. Twice, at least."

"I'm about to commit a felony. It rhymes with shmassault and battery."

"Shut the fuck up," Nico says, but he's grinning. Will is scowling hard but doing a very bad job of it, and Nico can actually see the don't you dare fucking laugh you're mad at him you have to stay mad at him flashing around in his eyes.

Nico swipes his thumb gently over his freckled cheeks.

It does not take very long for him to cave.

"I'm just worried," he admits, sagging into Nico's hold. His head, as it always has, fits perfectly in the crook of Nico's neck. He presses a soft, lingering kiss to his temple.

"Knew it."

"Shut up." The quick curve of his exasperated smile twitches against Nico's collarbones. "I just mean. Gods above, Nico. It's all the way across the country."

"I shadow travelled all the way across the world, once," Nico reminds him. He runs a hand through fraying curls. "I was fourteen at the time."

"Yeah, and you almost fuckin' died."

Will pulls away, agitated, and Nico lets him. The fraying curls get worse with every tug of his twitching hands, and the sound of his own echoing pacing makes him jump. The bags are deep and black under his eyes.

Nico sighs.

"Will," he says, and words hard to keep the frustration out of his tone, "Will, sweetheart, you cleared me."

But Will isn't listening. The mumbling has started, and so has the fidgeting; the bandages around his arms twist, and twist, and tug, leaving red marks on his bruised wrists.

"Monitoring hymn," Nico hears him mutter. "Or a lifeline..."

Nico checks his watch. He's -- well, he's late, technically, but he's never been punctual even one time, so it's fine. He's got time. He flops to the marble floors, leaning against his bedpost. He watches his boyfriend, notes the flicker and flash of his glowing freckles, of his spattered burn scars.

You and I both know you will be fine, Chiron had said. He had sighed, long and aged and hard, and stared at his buzzing, fritzy student. It will be good for him. Exposure.

"Will," he calls, eventually. "Tesoro."

Will stops. He blinks, coming back to himself, to the cabin. He searches around, eyes settling on Nico's comfy spot on the floor.

He sighs, shoulders sagging. He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. He stands there a long while, still except his breathing, tense.

"Everything is -- green," he says eventually, voice small. "I don't know how to stop it."

"You know how to make it worse," Nico points out, as gently as he can manage. "You've been spiraling for weeks."

"Not -- weeks."

"Since the start of the month."

"Yeah, only a few days."

"It's the thirtieth, Will."

He looks up, eyes wide. "No." He blinks. "Actually?"

Nico's smile is small and sad. "Yes."

"I thought -- I thought --"

"I know."

He doesn't really. He's watched it for years, but he doesn't -- understand, not in the way he understands the depression, the anger, the grief. He and Will have more things in common than they don't, but he doesn't spiral. Not like Will does. His pain has always bubbled and burst its way out of him, tingeing the edge of his vision red and igniting the curl of his fists. His pain has made him quick. His pain has made him quick, it has made him bitter, it has made him miserable, but it has always pushed him forward.

Will's pain gets curled up endlessly inside him, twisting his insides to knots.

It robs him, sometimes.

"Come here."

Will does. The fight has drained out of him, and there are tears in his eyes, even as he tries desperately to blink them away. His bandages lay limp at his sides, fluttering in the breeze from the still-open door.

"It's not that I don't trust you," he says, somewhat desperately. He turns so they're facing each other, criss-crossed knees knocking. "I do."

"I know," Nico says. He manages a small smile. "I always know that, Will."

"Good." His bright eyes soften in relief, fingers rubbing at his sternum. "You -- you're powerful, Death Boy. More than anyone I've ever known."

Nico raises his eyebrows. "Careful with that, Sunshine. You're going to get smited."

"Smote."

"Don't correct me when we're having a vulnerable moment."

"Don't need correcting, then."

Nico's smile widens. Will's, this time, matches, dimple flashing on his left cheek. Nico presses his thumb there, relishing in the sudden heat of Will's face and accompanying rolled, flustered eyes. He lingers, and stares, and stares, even as Will squirms, as the glow turns into something hotter than blood heat.

"I'm going to be okay, my love."

"I know."

"It's one jump. Hazel is waiting, unicorn draught at the ready in case I start swooning like a damsel."

"I know."

"Even my dad knows."

"I know."

"I would actually have to try to die, Will. Like there would have to be real effort on my part."

"Just --" he scrunches up his nose -- "I don't know what you could say that would make me less scared of it. Of losing you."

"I mean it would kind of suck if you did." He tilts their foreheads together, because it looks stupid as shit at this angle, and he knows Will'll laugh. He's right. "Since you love me and everything."

"I suppose it's one of those conditions," Will allows. "The whole caring if you up and die thing."

"Yep."

"S'a real pain in the ass."

"You're telling me. I was just fine being an emo loner, not giving a fuck about anything, and then you had to go ruin it. Now I gotta stress about your wellbeing and shit."

"Must be exhausting."

"Miserable." He reaches for Will's hands and squeezes, hard, until Will squeezes back. "It is the most important thing to me, though. Ever."

Will swallows. "Okay."

"I love you, Will Solace. Even when you are annoying about grammar and when you are prodding me about my iron levels and when you are so far in your head you're losing time." He pulls back slightly, just enough to press a kiss to Will's knuckles. "Especially then."

"I love you, too." Will swallows. "You'll be okay."

"I will."

"And you'll IM me when you get there."

"I will."

"And I'll be okay. Waiting."

Nico smiles softly. "You will be."

Will takes a deep breath. He nods. He stands, pulling them both up, and walks to the darkest corner of the Hades cabin, shoulders tense but face brave. He turns, exhaling slowly, and brushes invisible lint of Nico's shoulders, hands lingering.

"I will see you when you get back," he says.

"When I get back," Nico echoes. He kisses him again. "Worrier."

Will huffs, and Nico laughs, and he lets go, and Will lets him, and he steps into the familiar darkness, and the last thing he sees before the shadows envelope him is the trust in Will's light eyes.

[untolduttering]

Cravings

Summary: Sanji has gone much too long without his favorite meal and he fears that it’s driving him insane. Once he finds himself fully alone with you, he takes full advantage of the moment.

Tags: Sanji x afab!reader, nsfw, established relationship, oral (female receiving), fingering, face riding, overstimulation, squirting

Word Count: 3.4k

There’s a hollow pit in Sanji’s stomach this morning and it sets him on edge. He woke up late, a dream of you keeping him asleep longer, one that was cut off too early to be satisfactory anyway. When he got up from bed, the cold air bit harder than usual, settling into his bones and it seemed nothing could warm him. His clothes did not hug his body the way they should have. The image of you sleeping in his bed, hair mussed and sheets rumpled, didn’t leave him warm and fond, but instead running hot and with a fierce ache. The taste that he desires most hasn’t been on his tongue in much too long and he’s afraid it may kill him.

He arrives to the kitchen late. His process is not as smooth as usual, he starts and stops again and again. His foot caught on the stairs on the way up, tripping in a way he never does. He had to pause at the top to take a moment, to relax the building tension in his body. As he searches for ingredients, he has to dig around for much longer. He scans the fridge again and again, his eyes not finding the sauce he wants. He moves bottles and containers around and still cannot find it. He slams the door shut, thinking to try again later. When he does, he finds it immediately. He lights his third cigarette of the morning by then. Everything is too loud, too much. The pots and pans clang and bash as he uses them. A spoon clatters to the counter as it slips from his fingers, another to the floor. He grits his teeth.

Brook was always silent when he came in. There was a routine here by now, a pot of tea waiting on the table for when he wandered in. He waits until Sanji has been in the kitchen for some time before he enters, so he must have noticed Sanji’s late start. This time, Sanji can feel his eyes—or whatever damn thing the skeleton saw with—boring into him. His neck prickles with Brook’s all too knowing gaze and so Sanji waits.

It must have been after his first cup that Brook decides to venture a question. “Has something bothered you at all this morning, Sanji?”

Sanji twitches at his voice even though he had been anticipating it, and grunts. “Nothings bothering me.”

He wonders if he sounds too gruff. Does he grunt like that when he feels fine? He’s sure he does, but does it sound exactly like the way it did just now? Was his answer rude? He asks himself these things even though he can’t do anything about it. He can’t admit to what’s bothering him anyway, isn’t sure what he can do about it either.

The thing is, the past few weeks have been perfect. They ran into some marines, yes, but they’d won and no one had been injured. The last island didn’t bring any issues. The stock has been well kept, Luffy’s grubby finger successfully and consistently kept at bay. They could relax. But that didn’t mean they weren’t busy, or that their ship life meant they had all too much alone time.

It meant that Sanji couldn’t lavish you in the way he wanted. When you could be intimate, it had to be quick. Any time spent with you is time spent in heaven, so he cannot really complain, he still enjoys it immensely. However, it does also mean that you want him as close to you as possible. That you want him inside you as fast as you can. And your love for his mouth on yours means you don’t want to break away to breathe for even a moment. He loves this, he loves this, but it leaves him without having his favorite meal between your legs, and that’s what has got him so irate this morning. To go so long without the taste of your pussy on his tongue might be the thing that drives him insane. He’s considered stealing a pair of your panties to stuff his mouth with while he cooks. It wouldn’t be enough, but it’d be something to tamper the need.

His thoughts turn vile, leachurous, nasty. Thoughts he is always too afraid to say aloud to you. He wonders if you know how good you taste. He thinks of you alone in your shared room, your fingers dipping into your wet cunt and collecting the slick there. Bringing them to your mouth and sucking on your fingers. Fingering and collecting and tasting again and again. He grips the counter and pictures himself showing you how delicious it is. His fingers dipping in and your tongue swirling around his digits, watching your cheeks redden as he describes to you how it feels to drag his tongue through your folds, to shove it in your hole—

The door to the kitchen slams open, followed by confident footsteps, a stride so sure of itself. Zoro. All brashness, he comes in, heading straight for a bottle of sake. Not even a good morning, not even a oi, shit cook. Just coming in to raid his supplies, ruining the perfect fantasy he had going. Sanji starts in on him immediately, legs flying.

The fight doesn’t last long. Sanji’s too focused on getting him out, and Zoro’s too baffled on what the fuck he possibly could’ve done this time to really put much effort into staying.

It isn’t too long until you catch wind of Sanji’s foul mood. Zoro goes storming by, grumbling about some idiot shit cook. As you watch him pass, Brook comes up on your other side. He’s silent as he finds his place next to you, watchful. It’s clear to you he has something on his mind, and you think it may have to do with Zoro’s attitude. You look up at Brook, inviting him to speak.

“Do you know what’s bothering Sanji?” he asks.

You raise your eyebrows and glance in the direction Zoro has just gone, but he shakes his head. “It started before that.”

You frown. “Oh, well, no. I’ll go see what I can find out.”

Brook nods and pats your head as you walk past, perhaps as a way of saying good luck, or maybe thanking you.

When you walk in, Sanji knows it’s you by your soft footsteps. He can pick you out by any sound you make. He knows you by your scent and by the smallest flash of you across his sight. He could be deprived of all his senses and yet he could still pick you out, still know it’s you.

He pauses before he turns, taking in his progress. It’s close enough to done, close enough to breakfast. All he really would have to do is keep most of it warm. His fingers twitch as he thinks of this, as he does the math in his head. I can, I can.

Some mornings, the crew comes in still wearing their pajamas. It depends on the day and the mood of the person as to whether they’ll come to breakfast dressed and ready for the day. For you, the morning has been a lazy one, and you walk in wearing one of his t-shirts with a pair of shorts hidden beneath. Your hair is still a little messy from your pillow. The sight has his cock throbbing.

Before you can fully open your mouth, fully form your question, he’s across the room in a handful of strides. His mouth is on yours immediately, heated and desperate, and he starts dragging you back to the pantry.

“You must forgive me,” he murmurs. “Forgive me for my crassness, forgive me…”

“Sanji?” you ask him, confused and concerned.

Brook and Zoro will be warning everyone off by now. They’ll know you’ve come in to do some sort of damage control, and won’t come in themselves until you give them the all clear. You both have time.

You’re in the pantry, door almost slammed shut so he can push you against it. Sanji drops to his knees and the impact of bone on wood makes your stomach churn.

“Sanji—”

“You must understand,” he cuts you off. “You must understand just how much I need this. I’m sorry but I… I need it.” The last part comes out high pitched as he gets your bottoms off, removed at an impressive speed.

He doesn’t waste anymore time. He latches onto you as he hitches your leg over his shoulder. The moan he lets out is sinful, the shiver that wracks his body almost terrifying. He’s like a dog, the way he immediately starts lapping into you, the way his hips buck as he humps air. Sanji knew he had an affliction, one revolving around you, and could only be solved by you. He knew he was a desperate man, but he did not know just how bad it was.

You give up on trying to get anything more out of him. For one, it’s clear he’s not going to answer you. Two, it’s difficult for you to form words, to form a single coherent thought. He knows you so well that he already has you moaning, arching off the door, and sliding your fingers through his hair.

It’s perfect. It’s exactly what he has been wanting. But some greedy part of himself, one that he tries to keep tucked away, tears its way through, and he feels that it’s still not enough. He adds his fingers, reaching two in to hit that spongy spot that has you keening, because he needs you coming in his mouth now. He needs you tugging on his hair and grinding down onto his tongue right this second.

You give him just that. The way he pumps his fingers so mercilessly into you, the way he sucks on your clit and flicks his tongue, the way he’s so uncharacteristically aggressive with you, has your hips bucking on his face. When he wants you, he’ll ask so sweetly, sliding his hands all over to convince you. He’ll ease you into it or simply beg, face buried in your shoulder. You have to take the final step and say yes. But right now he was just taking, and it made your head swim. He throws you into your orgasm and your legs shake with the force of it.

It’s wet and it’s messy and it has him shivering with delight. And all he wants is more.

He maneuvers you onto the floor so that he can shove his face into you harder. He doesn’t give you a moment to catch your breath, he simply keeps licking his way into you. He’s eating so much sloppier, making out with his delicious treat.

There’s an ache in his teeth that he’s unfamiliar with, an urgency in his jaw. It feels similar to when he feels the urge to snap, to dig into someone. His mood swings are constant, a thing everyone is used to, but it’s not a feeling he ever feels towards you. His mouth, as never before, just wants to bite.

You can feel his teeth grazing, wanting to sink into flesh, but never doing so. The sensation makes you shiver. You’ve prompted marking each other before, something he’s glad to let you do, but he can’t bring himself to do it in return. He’s slowly loosening to the idea of hickeys, as they don’t hurt as they’re given. The bruising still bothers him. But biting, he’d always been firmly against biting.

He, as always, never wants to harm, never you, and now he wonders why he tortures himself so. To put his teeth so close but never sink them in. He thinks it may be the yearning, that he always has to have something to ache for, but knows he’ll never receive. Something about what he does and does not deserve. Something about deserving suffering, perhaps. Or maybe he does have a part of himself that likes to toy, to tease.

You’re so sensitive from your first that it doesn’t take him all too long to get you to your second. Your back arches off the floor, the zaps of pleasure running through your spine and all the way down to your toes. The throbbing of your cunt spurs him on and still he does not let up, does not give you a moment to recover. You pull on his hair and wriggle your hips, trying to get him to at least slow down.

“Sanji,” you whine. “‘S too much, too good, I can’t. Please?”

Just taking the short moment to pull back and answer you makes him want to cry. He can’t handle the short distance between him and your pussy. You feel his breath tickle you as he speaks. “Oh, but my sweetheart, please. Don’t you know how good you taste? It just drives me wild. And you’re doing so good for me, squeezing my head and clenching,” his voice hiccups and stutters on the word, “around my fingers… yeah. Yeah, my baby, you can give me more, can’t you? I know you can…”

He dives back in after trailing off, your pussy pulling him back into a trance. The teary look in his eye and desperation to his voice makes it impossible to tell him no. You let out a whimper but say, “Okay...”

He coaxes another out of you, all tongue and fingers and spit. You buck and spasm so hard, legs kicking out, that he has to put in more effort to hold you down, making sure you don’t hurt yourself. And yet he is just not satiated. He never truly is, really, but usually he’d be… calmed by now. Some out of place thing inside of him would be put back. His mind a little clearer. A sense of purpose, a job well done, a need fulfilled. But he feels as jittery and needy as ever.

“Just… just a little more, my love,” he tells you, and starts to move you again.

You can do little else but allow him to do as he pleases, and soon your pussy is hovering over his face.

“Your full weight, baby,” he murmurs, running his hands up and down your thighs, rubbing your hips. “Don’t think, don’t worry about a thing, just sit and feel good.”

You mewl out his name again as he pulls you down. Your thighs give out, unable to hold you, and it causes him to moan in delight. You’re always too worried, too self conscious, to ever fully press down on him. To have you too weak, too fucked out, to hold yourself up was delightful.

Ravenous. Depraved. Deprived. His mouth aches, his tongue and jaw tired, but it doesn’t matter. He feels you start to rock your hips and he groans, but suddenly you yelp and stop. The added movement was too much, overstimulating, and you couldn’t keep it up. Sanji wanted it, though, needed it, and began to grind your hips for you. You cried out, babbling about too good, too much, all over again, with his name in the mix, and you try to crawl away from him.

Good god, what was happening? You’ve never had to crawl from Sanji before. He would overstimulate you at times, so eager and needy for more, more, more that he’d keep going, begging you to let him. But if it was just too much, he’d relent. Kissing and apologizing and thanking you.

He wasn’t listening now, though, and he didn’t let you move. He’s got an iron grip on you, the hardest his hands have held you. The moment he feels you try to move away, his heart twists in panic. He feels like something precious is being taken from him. You're his, your pussy is his, and he couldn’t handle it being taken before he’s done, taken from him ever.

He feels pissed each time he has to stop to breathe, too. He can’t believe his body thinks he still needs air. Why the fuck would he want air right now? His real form of substance is already sitting on his face. It’s a waste of goddamn time to breathe. He was a man built for servitude, pleasure. Breathing currently interrupted that, so why would his body request it?

Above him, you’re barely holding on. You’re on your forearms, panting and moaning and trembling. You can’t form any more words, the babbling having ended a bit ago. All you can do is whisper his name, your throat barely able to say it, and simply keen. You snake a hand down, so shaky the whole way through, and tangle your fingers in his hair. Maybe if you give him this last one, he’ll let you go. You wonder if you’d really want him to. It makes your stomach flip and your pussy pulse to think of him forcing more orgasms out of you.

He’s just as noisy, as he always is, as he has been the whole time. Making slurping noises so lewd it makes your skin burn. A few more guided movements of your hips and your coming again, but this time you’re squirting, gushing all over his face.

This, this, is paradise. Sanji’s cock, neglected and aching and leaking, shoots hot ropes in his pants; a wet and hot mixture soaking through the fabric. His hips buck from just how strong his own orgasm is, his back arching as much as it can. You’re creaming all over his face, from his ministrations, from his love. And oh, how you sing for him. He couldn’t think of a better way to fix his mood, a better thing to cum to.

You collapse, falling to the side and laying there, taking deep, stuttering breaths. Sanji doesn’t move, he keeps his head tucked between your legs, and simply twists to lay on his side as well. He doesn’t continue to eat you out, however, finally relenting and letting you both calm down and find yourselves.

He does take the time to stare at your pussy, though, enjoying the sight. All puffy and swollen and wet; you just look so pretty. He wonders if you’d let him sleep like this at night, so close to a most precious part of you. He likes breathing in the scent of you, watching the way you flutter and clench from him just looking. Your thighs keeping him so warm and cosy. Yeah, he could easily fall asleep like that. He gives you feather light kisses up and down your slit, trying not to push you any more, but you’re so sensitive that you twitch and jolt anyway.

When he’s had his fill—which is to say he hasn’t, he just misses your face terribly—he comes crawling out to hold you. He finds himself equally concerned and bashful. He can’t believe how… demanding he’d been.

“How do you feel, my love?” he asks, sheepish. He pulls you close, squeezing and rubbing at your body, switching between legs and hips and arms.

You hum, and softly answer, “Tired… but good.” You know that what he’s asking for is if he took it too far, did anything wrong. “You always make me feel good.”

“I’m… I’m sorry I—”

“So, so, sooooo good,” you cut him off. For him to crave you so madly that he just has to corner you and pin you down so that he could fuck you with his tongue? How could you not be flattered?

You lift your head to look at him, and his face is dripping. Your slick is smeared all over, his upper lip a mixture of your cum and blood from his nose. His face is flushed from both pleasure and his shyness. He chews his bottom lip, meek from your attention on the mess he’s made.

You giggle. “We need to clean up.”

Sanji grins a little at this. “I don’t know, I quite enjoy my face being covered like this. I might just stay like this all day.”

You stick your tongue out and scrunch your nose. “Gross.”

He smiles wider. “No, my love, this is what bliss looks like.”

“Dork,” you snort.

You both stay like that a little while longer, enjoying each other’s warmth and presence. Breakfast could wait just a moment longer.

[gay-dorito-dust]

How’d they take to you trying to eat raspberry jelly without a spoon. (Totally not based on the stupid shit I just did, that’s embarrassing)

Dick Grayson

Joins you for shits and giggles.

He’s had a tough day and so seeing you try to do the impossible made him want to do it too, mainly because it’ll be something funny to look back on together, most specifically how determined you were to prove that eating jelly without a spoon was plausible and that you alone could do it.

He’s trying not to choke on his jelly when he watches you fail so hard, only getting a little bit of jelly between your teeth somehow, while also poorly trying to use your tongue to dig out the rest through sheer determination. He almost spits out his portion of jelly as it travels down his throat when he points and laughs at you, making him cough it back up in an attempt to not choke.

Poor Hayley wonders why her human parents are dumber together than they are apart as functioning adults with big jobs.

Damian Wayne

Looks at you disappointedly and gets you a spoon, wanting to put an end to the misery of having to suffer in watching you try, and fail to eat jelly without a spoon.

And even when you’re given a spoon, you’re dropping about half of the damn thing all over the floor, which is somehow even more embarrassing for Damian then watching you try to eat it without the spoon.

Alfred the cat is judging you while Ace and Titus are wondering what you were eating and if it was edible for them to eat. It’s most likely not, which is why Damian made sure none of the dogs -and Jerry- would try to get into the room you were in to attempt to eat the pinkish coloured jelly, warning them that their human parent is a dumbass. (Affectionally)

Jason Todd

Thinks Roy has put you up to this because only he would find this remotely funny to do when bored out of your wits. So instead of helping, he’s watching you from afar as you fail spectacularly and glaring at the pot, as if it was the inanimate objects fault you suck at eating jelly without a spoon.

It does in fact prove to be funny, though Jason would never admit that to Roy. Ever. However he couldn’t help but chuckle at how hard you were trying to prolong the need for a spoon, one of which he had held in his hand for the opportune moment to really rub salt into the wound.

Jason just watched you being a dumbass and thrived off of the fact that he no longer came home to a cold home, but more of one of warmth and stupidity that will be remembered for a long while when he needed it most, especially when missions get to him. Even long after he decides to pities you and gives you the spoon, he’s left highly amused when you drop half of the contents onto the floor and curse under your breath.

[odileeclipse]

I'm gonna freaking eat your works.....

(this is mildly wordy It's like 2am and I have a lot to say)

I'm a big big BIGGGGG sucker for a good Shmilk or Pure ganilla fic....and wow you delivered.....🤤🤤

Big thank you for keeping me entertained for a good hour, that's a struggle for me LMAO I loved your writing, and the way you wuold describe his voice being all wispy and spooky; really added to the overall vibe of the fic and I really did like it :3

If you don't mindsies, I'd love to request something from you as well (o゜▽゜)o☆ As previously stated in a comment somewhere, angst makes me SO happy to write/read....the in-depth details people can do with emotions makes me so HEAHEHHAEHAEHEHAHEAHEH in a /pos way....

So! I would like to hhhhhhumbly request some good old fashioned Shmilky angst! Or, if you'd prefer to write Pure vanilla that's cool tooo!!!! I don't really mind what *type* of angst, just angst 🤤 I try to give writers creative freedom, but I'd adore some loss/unable to cope with loss of a loved one.....whatever works ;b ANYWAYS! LOVE YOUR WORK AND YOU'RE VERY COOL!!!!! 💥💥💥💥

The Puppet and the Fool

A tragedy in One Last Breath

A/N You're right there's been too much happiness on this blog time to fix that.

You were never supposed to last. From the moment you met Shadow Milk Cookie, you had been a mere curiosity, a spectator drawn into his ever-moving spire, his ever-deceiving carnival of illusions. And yet, somehow, you had done the impossible you had slipped between the cracks of his carefully constructed reality, nestled yourself in the spaces he hadn’t meant for anyone to occupy. It had started as a game, like all things with him did. "Oh? What’s this? A little spectator who doesn’t flee at the first trick? How rare!" His voice had slithered around you, a serpent’s coil laced with amusement and something sharper, something dangerous. Others feared him, reviled him, whispered of his cruelty in hushed tones. But you, oh, you were foolish. Foolish enough to laugh, to poke at his ego, to challenge him in ways no one else dared.

He had never asked you to stay. Never invited you into his world of trickery and taunts. And yet, there you were, day after day, watching his performances with something that was not admiration, not fear just an amused understanding. "And what, pray tell, keeps you lurking about, dear audience?" he would purr, flourishing his staff. "Surely, you have places far safer than my den of illusions." You had only shrugged, smiling faintly. "Your shows are entertaining." "A high compliment, indeed!" He placed a hand over his chest in mock gratitude. "But beware! The greatest trick of all is never knowing whether you’ve already become part of the act!" "I think I’ll take my chances." Foolish. But he liked that about you. And so, your presence became a fixture, something woven into the very script of his performances. He would create grand illusions, dazzling lights and twisting realities, and you would be there, arms crossed, shaking your head with a knowing smile. "Too much?" he would ask, grinning. "You always overdo it," you would reply. It became a game one he never admitted he enjoyed far too much. And, without realizing it, he began making his performances for you.

"I see through your tricks, Shadow Milk. You’re not as unpredictable as you think." That had caught his attention. You played along, indulged his theatrics, yet somehow remained separate from them. You saw through him in ways that unnerved him, as if you knew where the real strings were pulled. But instead of cutting them, you simply held them, quietly watching as he tangled himself in his own illusions. You became a regular in his performances, not as an unwilling participant, not as a victim, but as something else entirely. A quiet presence beside him, a soft counter to his grandiosity. A knowing smile when his lies got too elaborate, a gentle nudge when his mind grew too tangled in its own web. And somehow, he let you stay. Because for all his lies, you never demanded the truth from him. And for all his illusions, you never asked him to be anything but himself. Looking back, the signs had been small, quiet things, easy to dismiss, easier to ignore. The way your hand would tremble when reaching for his. The way your breath sometimes came too short, too shallow, even when you stood still. The way your laughter, once bright and full, became something softer, something restrained. "Tired already, my dear? We’ve barely begun the show!" he would tease, twirling his staff, watching as you paused to catch your breath. And you, ever the fool, would grin and wave him off. "Maybe you should carry me, then." "Oh-ho! A tempting proposition! But I’d hate to spoil you."

He had never thought much of it. Cookies grew weary. They faltered. It was natural. It wasn’t until he noticed the way you hid it the way you swallowed the winces, the way you steadied yourself against walls when you thought he wasn’t looking that something cold and unfamiliar began to fester in the back of his mind. Doubt. A word he despised when it came to you. But it remained. And yet, he never asked. Because asking would mean acknowledging. And acknowledging would mean accepting. So he let the show go on, even as the cracks in the stage deepened beneath your feet. Now, as you lay in his arms, the truth he had refused to see wrapped around him like chains, dragging him into a reality he would not accept. You had always been dying. And he had never noticed. Or rather he had never allowed himself to notice. "You lied to me," he whispered, his voice barely above a breath. You managed the smallest of smiles, though it barely reached your eyes. "I didn't lie." "But you didn't tell me." His grip tightened, his mismatched eyes wild, frantic, unblinking. "You let me play my part, let me prance about like a fool while you-" He choked on his words. "Why?"

You exhaled, slow, tired. "Because I knew you’d react like this." The laugh that tore from his throat was anything but amusement. "You-!" His voice cracked, and he had to swallow down the wreckage threatening to spill. "You knew and you still…" His breath shuddered. "Why didn’t you tell me?!" You hesitated. Not because you didn’t have an answer, but because you did. And he wasn’t ready for it. "Because I didn’t want my last moments to be a performance," you murmured. Your fingers brushed against his cheek, weak, barely there. "I wanted to just… be with you." Something shattered inside him.

All those stolen moments, every laugh, every conversation, every quiet night beneath an illusory sky of his own making they had been real. You had given him something real. And now you were taking it away. His breath came quick, shallow. His grip on you was desperate, as if holding you tighter could keep you anchored to him, to this world. "No, no, no, I won’t let you—" "Shadow Milk." His name had never sounded so soft. So final. You smiled. "I love you." And then, stillness. The silence was deafening. Shadow Milk Cookie did not move. Did not breathe. Did not accept. His jester’s hat had long since fallen, forgotten on the cold ground. The ghostly eyes in his hair flickered wildly, their gazes darting in all directions, uncertain, uncomprehending. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t real. The story wasn’t supposed to end this way. He clutched your body tighter, rocking slightly, his voice barely above a whisper. "You’re still here." A statement. A fact. A truth. Or perhaps, the most desperate lie he had ever told. "You’re just waiting for your cue. That’s all this is." His tone was light, theatrical, forced. "A clever little act oh, how you’ve fooled me this time, my dear!" His mismatched eyes gleamed, too wide, too bright. "But the show must go on." There was no response. Yet he continued, undeterred. "I’ll give the next line, then! What a generous performer I am!" A sharp, broken laugh left him. "You’ll wake up soon. You always do." The world did not answer. But he did not listen. Because Shadow Milk Cookie was a liar, a master of illusion, a weaver of truths and falsehoods alike. And so he told himself the greatest lie of all. That you were still there. That you had never left. That the final act had not yet begun. And as the silence stretched on, swallowing the stage whole, he did what he had always done. He played his part. And waited for you to play yours.

[daylighted]

I need more baby!reader Dean , I adore everything you write 😭

i think... it's about time... i give u guys what u want ( dean flirting with baby )

sam had his hands full with lore clinging to him, just as dean had intended for things to go. see, that was the only reason he'd entertained your bizarre wish of turning his dad's journal into a girl at all. not that he'd admit it to himself or anything, but it was true. sam occupied meant that there were no witnesses to the fact that, very quickly, his entire resolve was crumbling away due to all of the chipping you'd done at it.

you! this girl that was yes, once his car, but now was this full-fledged human being. you, who liked to be pressed entirely to the window as he drove, taking in every sight with your nose against the glass. you, who held a hand over your heart every time you got anxious, and then proceeded to tear him apart in one sentence because of that anxiety. and you, who cried your eyes out after you said something you thought was too mean.

dean was screwed — but he was thinking of it less like a bad thing now and more like something that could, possibly, potentially, be good for him? this was just as new to him as it was to you, considering he'd never had someone be so utterly devoted to him like you were.

you were brushing your teeth at the sink, humming a song to yourself in the process. he loved showing you music. each song became your new favorite. dean didn't know, really, if you liked them because he showed them to you, or you genuinely liked them, and honestly? didn't care. he was never going to deny the fact that, no matter what it was, you were too damn cute, humming along to whatever metallica song came on next in his (absolutely not specially curated) cd collection.

"c'mon, baby, i don't have all day," he grumbles, tapping the tv remote against his thigh to the beat of the song you hummed to. "you said you wanted to watch..."

he trails off, because he knows you really well by now, and knows you'll fill in the blank. which you do, excitedly spitting out the foamy toothpaste in your mouth and all but leaping onto the bed next to him. "the witcher!" you were a little unbearable after learning that you came to existence because of a witch. dean in all of his whipped glory, thought it was as endearing as ever. "put it on! now!"

"i'm tryin'," he laughs, holding the remote over your head as he scrolls through the options on netflix. "hard to focus when you're bouncin' around over there." goddamn, was it. "sit still, will ya?"

all it takes is one ask for you to, expectedly. unexpectedly, you've decided to settle right on his lap. dean was well aware of how snuggly you got at nighttime, but this was a new level to it. he is suddenly extremely focused on the tv screen, and definitely not on your bare legs wrapped around his, or your head nuzzled into his chest. or anything in between. please, god, don't let him focus on anything in between.

"did you know i love you?" his heart skips a beat every time you say it, even though dean is well aware of how you mean it. not like the way he wishes you would, but somehow somewhere in between what he wants and something platonic. the only type of love that you knew was this, and he didn't want to do anything to selfishly divulge you away from your feelings, however convoluted and confusing they were.

dean nods, his free hand coming up to trail his fingers through your hair. "i know." and dean did. you made sure to tell him once a day, which was another new thing for him. "love you too, angel."

he feels the scowl before you even voice your complaints. you were baby. he should call you baby. but something about the phrase, love you too, baby felt entirely too real and serious, and you could handle it, but he couldn't. not like this.

"there you go," you say, and instantly, dean's mouth tilts up in a smile, "trying to name me again."

your head lifts to meet his eyes, and he watches as the scrunchy irritation to your face melts into a warm smile. you always smiled when he did. you were a girl full of so much love, it just spilled out of every place it could. "it's called a nickname," he says, not for the first time, either. very common occurrence because dean cannot for the life of him stop calling you pretty names, "you can call me nicknames too, you know."

"no." you scoot up in his lap, and he has the willpower and strength of a fucking god, because he does not, in fact, whimper like he could have. could have! but didn't. you really should not fucking do that, but you don't know any better. he has to remind himself that you don't know that you sitting in his lap and gliding against him is enough to set his soul on fire.

dean raises an eyebrow up at you as you resettle on his stomach, your knees under his armpits. he sets the remote aside, his hands going to your waist to steady you. to steady you, he tells himself, even though you've never looked more secure in your life. "no? don't even want to try one?"

"you're dean, and i'm baby. that's just how it is and has been." you lean down quickly, and dean actually gasps, stuttering on his breath in his throat, thinking you're going to kiss him. he deflates when instead, you press your forehead to his, nose-to-nose. you don't know better. it's a constant mantra in his head. "you can't go changing it up now."

"you could call me baby."

your minty breath fans across his face, your eyes trailing over every inch of his face. you always look at dean so reverently. no one has ever looked at him the way you do, like there's nothing broken and nothing to fix, just beauty in every crevice.

"i don't want to." the honesty makes him grin, shaking his head in his amusement.

your hands come up to hold his face in between them, your palms flat on his cheeks, the scratch of his late-night stubble tickling against delicate skin of your hands. he knows it tickles, just by how you start to giggle. god help him. "i could call you angel. or sweetheart. or darlin'. i could call you babygirl."

something shifts in your eyes. it's subtle, barely noticeable, but you've got your face against his and he can see everything from here. he traces his fingertips along your ribcage through your shirt — his shirt, actually, but it'd taken up permanent residence on you. "no."

"no?" he echoes again, his head tilting to the side. your grip on his face tilts it right back, and dean can't help but laugh heartily. "don't tell me my pretty baby hates bein' called babygirl."

"stop it." you're blushing. your skin is warm beneath his hands, and all he wants is to reach under your shirt and feel it properly. a reminder to himself that you were real, and not some hyper-realistic delusion he'd been having for weeks.

it's all too easy to tip his chin up, so close to kissing you that his mouth opens and he feels the brush of your lips against his like electricity. "why? you're baby, and you're a girl. what's wrong with that?"

dean hadn't ever riled you up before. sure, he'd pissed you off, he'd endured plenty of verbal lashings from your sharp tongue, but this was new. this was the first indication that you loved him like he wanted you to love him.

"not funny."

"very funny, baby," and then suddenly, it's just as unfunny as you said, because your eyes fall to his mouth, and now he's a bit frozen in place. he bunches up the sides of your shirt beneath his fingers so it's raised enough for him to slip his fingers beneath, the warmth of your skin against his sending shivers down his spine.

you're going to kiss him, he thinks. you won't know what it means, and you definitely aren't going to know what you're doing, but he's already prepared for that. he'll guide you. he'll show you everything, actually, as long as you let him.

it's barely a proper touch of your mouth to his, but it's electric. he leans up to chase more of it, to seal the words into your mouth—

the hotel room door clicks as the lock releases, and dean stutters back with a jolt, his head knocking against the headboard. you turn your head to the door, not even bothering to move even though you really, really should, dean's a fucking wreck and you almost kissed him and—

"oh, come on, dean." sam's irritation is visible when he meets his brother's eyes, shrugging off the coat he was wearing.

dean lifts his shoulders in an exasperated shrug. "we are witching the witcher, sammy."

lore points at the tv screen. "you are not watching anything. you are queued up to watch cocomelon."

dean stretches his neck to look over your shoulder, and his expression flattens. he was fine with lore, he didn't have any qualms against her existence, but he was beginning to regret letting you swindle into creating her.

dean doesn't know if he's thankful or not when you climb off of his lap and go over to lore, already babbling about... god, what did you two even talk about? every time he tried to focus on the two of you together, he instead just zeroed in on you, and everything else went blank.

everything was still blank now. he watches your eyes light up with the weight of your joy, and he can't help but wonder if it meant anything at all, or if it was just a moment that you two had, and nothing more.

once again, all dean could do was hope it was something more.

notes. how many times will dahlia change her format for baby!reader: the people may never know. this came out sm longer than expected PLSSSS I JUST LOVE BABY & DEAN OKAY !!!

tags. @titsout4jackles @deansbeer @honeyryewhiskey @ultravi0lence14 @figthoughts @stereotypicalbarbie @whyyouegg @eepwtf @rositaslabyrinth @rubyvhs @jensenacklesballsack @abox-of-rocks @sunsbaby @bluemerakis @jollyhunter @misatxox @angelblqde @bombarda-babe @unfortunate-brat @funkycoloured @chevroletdean @chiierful @cowboysandcigarettes @voidsuites @bitchykittenconnoisseur @beausling @soldiersgirl @dulcescorderitas @hyacinnths @blushpinkdoll @mccartneyqp @svbnra @h8aaz @mahi-wayy @bejeweledinterludes @h8aaz @jjmbbg @valjy