#and her ridiculous cheekbones

[woodface]

I've been rewatching Motherland: Fort Salem because sometimes you just need to see Tally thirst after General Alder... and well because Alder continues to be one of the most intriguing characters in recent media. She gets to be a hero and a villain all at once, and while she makes a lot of dubious choices, there is just a part of me that understands why and wants to excuse her for it all.

She is so pivotal to the series, even when she is in the background in the first season, this very world is what it is because of her choices. She saved and doomed witches in the same breath. She made them a home, and protected them, while putting all their lives in the line of fire. Anyway, before I get too side tracked...

It struck me on this rewatch just how desperate Alder gets in S2. I don't remember noticing it as acutely before just how much she starts to crumble the moment Wade makes it clear she will take away her army from her - a line she repeatedly throws around as a reminder to anyone trying to oppose her. The first crack in the armour is Anacostia, her choice to disobey orders and play into Petra's hand. The way we see her trembling and close to breaking at this betrayal. S2 Alder is isolated and has her back up against the wall. Petra Bellweather has stopped hiding her ambitions, pushing at every turn to get rid of Alder, and her one ally seems to agree.

And then there is Tally who keeps pushing, who was so intimately connected to her and who she felt genuine affection for, but even she who was inside her mind only came out seeing the worst of her. S2 Alder is held down by her own decisions. Years of needing to compromise at every turn, to see the worst of humanity and to push through it for her witches whose faith she sealed along with her own. Her warning to Petra when she is stripped of her position is a visceral one. Petra does not know what she is taking on at all, and it shows instantly as everything starts falling apart around them the moment Alder is gone.

It's a curious thing she mentions later to Petra that the accords are more than words, and the accusation that Alder knew a way around them regardless. Would she have been able to do more? Stop more of Silver's manipulations even if she had to Push or Puppet to do it? Would anyone have blamed her then if she had done so or would they have seen that yes, stopping Silver was worth it. Stopping Wade was worth it in Sarah's mind too because they were taking her witches from her. Her army - how many times does she repeat that during this season? Petra accuses her of having lost her humanity, but I don't think she ever did. I do think she lost her connections to humanity. So many generations of witches she has watched die or grow old and be replaced, so many battles and each of them worse, each of them making it a little easier to justify her actions. Until that ultimate moment where she felt her control slipping, where those around her only saw the worst of each choice without seeing the patterns she could see forming. The return of the Camarilla who would once more take everything she held dear and seek to destroy all witches like they had destroyed her family and her coven before, Wade's persistence that Alder had to go when Alder more than anything felt that her work was not done and Petra who she saw as unprepared to take on the weight that Alder had carried for centuries.

It makes it all the more striking when the execution scene comes around. Alder taking up the scourge to condemn one more witch. A witch who brought them all to the brink, but whose motivations were entirely her fault. The fact that she is the one to take this action rather than Petra who was about to take over, only to then have Tally Craven stand up against her. To have the witches' army that was hers mere moments ago move against her.

There is such desperation in that moment when you see her realise how many she would have to hurt to follow these orders that she is bound to. Wade pushing her even then when these young soldiers are putting their lives on the line and Alder's desperation in that moment. I love that it's Anacostia who breaks the moment, who moves forward and gives Sarah permission to stop and walk away. Permission that centuries of following orders and walking that line could never have given her. Seeing her realise that even if she couldn't be there anymore, then perhaps she had left this army strong enough to go on without her anyway. I feel like there is pride there as much as there is heartache, all of it granted with a touch to the shoulders from the one witch she saw as her own daughter. Tally's look as Alder walks away speaks volumes as well, the moment she realises what she has done only for the world to fall apart. Her goodbye to Alder in the next episode shows it so much, giving Alder permission to put down her burdens and I don't think anyone ever told her that. She has gotten used to being revered and loathed at once, to have people judge her but rarely to have them sympathise with her. You see it even more as Nicte keeps pushing at Tally, telling her the old crone had to go while Tally is more and more realising that Alder going was like a dam breaking. And we get to see a different Alder after that, once the moment is gone and she has lost control. The Alder who steps up to Petra and says "how can I help", who never resents her the title of General and only gives her deference because she knows the weight of it, and maybe it hurts because it isn't her army anymore, but in a way... it will always be. It says enough how much hope she brings when she shows up at Fort Salem and the witches see her and even Petra is strengthened by her there. She might not be their General anymore, but she still is their hope and their strength. It echoes in her conversation with Khalida later on when she talks about how the cabin she grew up in was the last time she felt safe and it was the last time she felt free to simply be. I needed to make sure we lived. And Sarah Alder first meant her sister, but when she lost her as well, it became all witches. She became a leader not because she was born into it, but because no one else would fight for them so she did. And any time she failed and lost again, she got up and fought harder. She sang The Mother into being, their ultimate salvation (even if I find the resolution kinda meh). There's one more bit of her conversation with Khalida that stands out though: These moments could have destroyed us, but they did not. And we need not endure this pain alone, we are stronger together. It's sad to think that for good chunks of her time, Alder was alone. When her sister was murdered and she signed the accords. When her coven was taken, and she was alone again, but she kept going. She built an army around her, but how much was she alone in her pain? I think she was at the end there, a loneliness of her own making by pushing people away and a loneliness that grew when she was surrounded by those who resented her decisions (rightly so on many occasions), and yet... She was a mother to Anacostia and she saw something in M and gave them a place to call home. Petra is so very wrong when she tells Sarah that she lost her humanity, but she isn't wrong that Alder might be on her way of losing the connections that let her feel that humanity so keenly. Alder made mistakes, but it was her humanity that pushed her as far as it did and that kept her going, and watching her be able to embrace it fully again in S3 is so fascinating because it is a very different Alder there who looks at Tally and holds her when she worried for Raelle, and it a softer Alder who finally can connect with Khalida rather than be at odds at her, because she finally has time to slow down and not focus on the bigger picture she was trying to reach.

[nyaskitten]

I'll never get why Lego felt the need to make Wildbrain change the Mechanic's and Ronin's appearences in accordance to the Ninjago City Gardens set, but couldn't spare that same courtesy for Misako??? Misako has worn the exact same outfit since season 2, and in-universe since the fucking Serpentine War... that reddish-orange jacket would've at LEAST spiced her look up a bit.

[sparrows4bats]

Pretty Damian is killing me. @ghostly-bat @bizzylosingcats I hope you enjoy the fruits of the seeds you have sown in my mind.

Damian grows up to look like Talia more and more. He still has his Dad's jawline and brows, but that is Talias Baby! By the time he is an adult, he has Talias nose and cheekbones. Her skintone and green eyes. When he forgets to get his hair cut, his mother's waves appear. When he smiles, it is an Al ghul grin.

Due to being vegetarian and training with Dick and Talia the most, Damian is lithe and flexible. Built for speed and stealth. He doesn't have the bulk of his brothers and stops growing at 5 foot 10, a respectable height even if Jon keeps resting his chin on his head!

Overall, Damian is a supermodel in the making he just doesn't realise it, but it's not his fault. All of the Wayne's are ridiculously good-looking, and Damian never notices his pretty privilege because he chalks the stuff people do for him up to him being a Wayne. He doesn't view people and physical appearance like that, so the idea they are hitting on him doesn't even cross his mind.

His family doesn't realise how big an issue this is until Damian shows up to a Wayne Gala dressed to nines for the first time in years.

Since starting his paediatric and Truama Surgery specialities, Damian has pretty much lived in scrubs, and when he is not working, he's in pyjamas trying to rest as much as possible before his next shift.

So, when Bruce forces them all to attend the Wayne Gala, Damain asks Stephanie and Cass to pick out his outfit for him because he's busy.

The girls get him a fitted black suit with a deep green dress shirt that is artfully unbuttoned to show off his collar bone. He is adorned in gold jewellery and has subtle kohl around his eyes to complete the look.

When he enters the Gala, he captures the awe and attention of everybody. The socialites crowd around Dr Wayne, much to the horror of his family.

Dick spends the night rescuing Damian from his admirers.

Tim pays attention to who gets a little too close and decides on a few little investigations later.

Jason punches a guy who tries to grope him.

Bruce is inundated with blind date requests and even arranged marriage proposals. It's the first time he has been considering getting drunk for real at a party.

The girls are proud of themselves and terrified of what they have released into the world.

Duke spends the party helping Damian hide with his powers.

The issue is that it doesn't stop after the Gala. Photos of Damian are leaked to the press, and Gotham goes wild!

A young prodigy doctor who works with underprivileged children! And he looks like that! There's fan pages up in minutes.

He's an animal lover?! Well, now his pets all have fan pages, too!

Damian Wayne is out trending his entire family and said family are losing their collective mind!

They hate it. If they see one more thirst post, Oracle is going to start ruining lives! (Damian, who, other than looking at art pages, does not use social media, is blissfully ignorant of it all.)

It gets worse when the heroes meet Dr Wayne one day. They know Robin retired, and those who know the batfamilys identify know Damian went to school, but no one has seen him in a while.

No one is prepared for the re introduction.

During a potentially world ending event, Superman gets injured. They can't get to the internal injuries because of the inpeneratable skin, and there's a lump of kryptonite lodged somewhere inside of him. And instead of panicking or trying to help, his son flies off.

Everyone is so confused. Until he returns minutes later carrying a man in a white coat.

"Everyone stand back now!"

Batman and his team obey instantly; forcing everyone else to do the same. Superboy lets the man go as he runs to the fallen Superman.

Then, he takes out a medical kit from seemingly nowhere and inspects the wound. "Jon I'm going to need you to hold him still while I sedate him."

It's only after the surgery began that they noticed all of the instruments glow green.

"It's done, but he needs yellow sun," the stranger turns to the crowd that's gathered. "Is anyone else hurt?"

They all freeze at the sight of green eyes, messy hair, and a perfect face. Slowly, all hands go up.

The gorgeous man sighs, "Batman, Nightwing, I need you to grab med bags 7 A and 8 B. They are stocked for Metas and Diagnostic Use."

Both men glare at them but do as they are told.

"Now I want everyone to form a line, Spoiler can you help with triage?" The purple vigilante nods.

The doctor is there for hours and sees each one of them. Many blush as he examines them.

Superboy, meanwhile, hovers over his father and glares the entire time.

The Bats guard the doctor but listen to his every demand. (Apparently, they were hiding their own injuries. The beautiful man berates them all while stitching them up and force feeding Red Robin pills.)

When they leave, many have a lot of questions, many looking for his number.

Nightwing, Batman, and Superboy look especially pissed when Blue Beetle asks him for it.

The pretty doctor appears a few more times always accompanied by the Bats and the Supers. (Many heros try to catch his attention, but Batman always seems to know when they cause their injuries on purpose.)

Jon is pissed. When he went and got Damian for his Dad, he never expected it to go like this!

He sees how the others look at Damian, how they try to impress him, and wants to drag his Robin from the Watchtower immediately.

Where was this admiration when Damian was Robin? When he was literally killing himself to be a good leader, a good hero? They didn't want him, either of them, then. They don't deserve him now.

So Jon does something he should have done years ago and asks Damian Wayne on a date. He is so lucky he says yes.

Their dating life is so easy, so natural it feels like they can breathe easier even though they didn't realise they were struggling before.

Jon gets to wooing the love of his life. It's not hard, but God is it fun to do all the things he has wanted to do for Damian for years.

And Damian apparently does the same. He calls it courting and, for some reason, doesn't freak out when Jon proposes after two months. Their parents sure do, but They dont know that Jon was going to propose after the second date. This was restraint. (Damian was planning his own proposal, but his custom order ring took too long.)

But Jon is blissful, and so is Damian. And no one really blames him after they meet his fiance.

The Next Gala Bruce makes sure to invite the League when they announce their engagement publicly. Jon withstands the envy just fine with his beautiful Robin by his side.

[riverbends]

BLUEBIRD

(andrew “pope” cody x f!reader)

part one: wingspan | mdni | MASTERLIST

this fic is a continuation of this concept.

synopsis: your daughter leads you to the brooding, shark-eyed man who quietly lingers down the aisle.

tags: ANGST, season 4 pope, more angst, age gap, heavy yearning, very brief mentions of violence, eventual smut wc: 2.4k (i definitely intend to write much longer chapters) cat says: this is set some time around s4ep1 and the perspectives shift back and forth.

He finds you here again. The same day, two weeks later.

Only, this time, he can’t hide from your child, who springs up on her toes upon seeing him linger by the bread racks. Ten feet away, give or take. As soon as she tugs on your sleeve, he blinks and shifts his attention to a bag of rye bread slices in an attempt to feign intrigue with something other than you.

Still a blur in the periphery of his sight, you lean down to catch her whispers while she cups a little hand around your ear.

“Ohhh,” you coo in a hushed voice. He hears you laugh then, and it seizes his heart. He has nowhere to run; nothing to conceal him. A ‘deer in the headlights’ kind of dread. His throat dries and tightens when blurred shapes approach his right flank. Your daughter is dragging you toward him with all the might in her four-year-old body. “Slow down, please, Sam,” you try to warn her.

He’s left with no other choice but to glance to his side and acknowledge the two of you (The haunting image of something he could’ve had, once upon a time, if Smurf didn’t get into his head. Another woman, another child, neither of which he felt he deserved).

“Hi, I’m so sorry,” you smile apologetically, feeling the ache of regret gnaw on your innards. You see his jaw tense. His arms remain firmly crossed and you take note of the way they bulk up and swell under his shirt sleeves. A vein snaking along his freckled forearm. “She just really wanted to say hello,” you look down at your child, who beams and swings her hand with yours. He looks down too, stone-faced and unconcerned.

A fading purple welt brands his cheekbone and it draws your attention to how worn he looks. Little nicks and scars peppering his nose with the ghost of someone’s locked fist crashing into the cartilage. You notice his hand curling over his bicep as shades of yellow and red bloom like withered flowers under the marred skin of his knuckles.

He must be a handful of weeks out of an old fight, and you wonder what kind of man throws his body into a torrent of violence and then gifts a kid—and quite morosely at that—some snacks (presumably) out of the kindness of his heart.

For a moment, you’re mortified by the possibility that your daughter has mistaken him for the wrong man. Or that he, for whatever reason, has entirely forgotten the random interaction he initiated in the parking lot two weeks ago. The box of chocolate pretzels he bought for your daughter is still sitting half-empty in your pantry.

“Hello,” Sam waves with her free hand, but she’s suddenly shy after all that nagging and pulling. She moves to wrap herself around your leg, squishing her face against the side of your thigh.

Pope watches you rest your hand on the crown of her head, and he has to chase his breath while keeping a straight face. Lena echoes in the back of his mind. Haunts him. Your child is probably a few inches shorter than she would be, though he’s not even entirely sure if she’s still the same height now. He knows it’s a ridiculous notion that his niece could have grown so significantly in only a matter of months. But even a day without her feels longer than a lifetime, and then some.

Pope has also never really been smooth with people, let alone beautiful young mothers such as yourself. Wouldn’t blame you if you confuse his muted wonderment with blunt apathy.

You’re flooded with relief when he finally nods at her, even when he says ‘Hi’ in a colourless tone. You wonder if he’s ever spoken to a child before. It’s a little sweet, nonetheless.

“That was really kind of you,” your voice pulls his eyes back up to you, “buying the pretzels for her last week. I don’t know how you noticed.”

You search his face as if the set of his features will give him away and answer all your multiplying questions. It’s pathetic how much the gesture had moved you—a memory you haven’t stopped revisiting since that day he found you and Sam by your car. When was the last time somebody paid attention to her? To you?

“Just mildly observant,” he shrugs. Mildly doesn’t even begin to cover it, but you don’t know that.

You wouldn’t say that you find his stare to be too unnerving, but it’s not exactly comforting you either. His eyes are a shade you can’t properly distinguish and the way he looks at you seems to darken his irises significantly. Pupils blown wide; colour, swallowed up. You might as well be trapped in some configuration of a microscope, your myriad cells all laid bare for his study.

Sam decides she longer has any interest in the man and circles around your legs to look at the rows of bread beside you. She’s crouching by your feet, attempting to count past thirteen and repeatedly starting back at one. You look up again to find his eyes boring into a fraction of your bare collarbone.

All this time, his body has been facing the bread racks while his head is angled to the right. You wonder if his neck might be sore.

Your hands sink into the pockets of your shorts, “You really didn’t have to, but thank you. Again.”

He leaves a pause like he has to chew on your words before finding his own.

“You couldn’t afford it,” he says. “Wasn’t a problem.” Maybe you’re kidding yourself, but he sounds a touch softer. Again, you’re trying to figure out where he could’ve been when you had to say no to Sam and how much of the conversation he remembers. No matter how much sense you try to make of it, nothing about him seems to add up.

“Money is tight,” you say with a nod before averting your eyes almost in shame. Like you’re trying to sand down the sharp corners of your deficit so as not to further humiliate yourself. But, to Pope, you don’t do a very good job of it. Hiding your shame, that is. He can’t figure out how to communicate his sympathy without coming on too strong.

Before he can stop himself, he tilts his head, asking, “Where’s her father?”

The bluntness of it stuns you a little bit, but then you’re laughing again, as soft as the first time. His insides liquify at the sound.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” you sigh, “I’m not sure these days. Probably the other side of the planet.”

You say it so casually, but you still can’t get a laugh out of him. He’s scanning your face like he knows you’ve got more to say, and you probably do, but you’ve never cared enough to remember her father’s name because he sure as shit doesn’t remember hers.

“He doesn’t support you?” Pope presses before he wonders why he even bothered asking. Who, in his life, can stand up and say that their father actually acted like one? Out of all of his mother’s lovers, who had been the least deplorable? How many of them had actually cared about anything besides themselves?

He once thought that Baz, at the very least, would break the cycle of abandon.

You glance down at your kid, wary of her ears, before manoeuvring around her and stepping closer to him. The proximity has him feeling lightheaded, but he pivots to face you with his whole body this time. You lower your voice, sharing half-secrets with a brooding stranger in a grocer’s aisle.

“We weren’t really together,” you start, a little scared that he might think differently of you now (You don’t know that it’s near impossible to scare him off with whatever you’re about to confess). “I was young—too young. He was older. And charming, at first.” Your mind revisits old memories like spoiled milk.

Something burgeons deep inside him, closely comparable with the need to disinfect. To clean. To wipe your skin free of the residue of that man. He doesn’t think it makes you dirty, not in the slightest. But he sees it as a stain on your life and he finds himself incensed by the idea that you’ll have to spend year after year trying to scrub it all away. Betraying his better judgement, he has already half-convinced himself to do it for you.

“How young?”

You think on it for a moment, swallowing a knot of worry. “Eighteen.”

Pope remembers his sister, then. Youth: so forcefully ripped away.

“What about him?”

“He was in college,” you shrug. The bastard never actually disclosed his exact age – one of the many things you’re too embarrassed to admit. “Hosted ragers every weekend and breezed through study. Sam’s almost five now and I still try to convince her that I had her all by myself. But I can only lie for so long.”

Pope can guess that you’re in your early twenties, a little younger than Deran. He’s only met you twice and he can already feel his resolve burning. There is a temptation to keep you here until you’ve told him every harrowing detail you can recall from the moment you learned Sam was growing in your belly up until now.

If you couldn’t afford an extra item on your grocery list, then he’d wager you really don’t have anyone at all. What he feels now is foreign to him; has him abandoning logic and sense when he plucks his wallet from his back pocket.

“What?” You’re laughing nervously as you watch him thumb through folded cash, holding out three 50s and a 20 like he’s just giving you simple change. He doesn’t budge. Doesn’t do anything to encourage you to take it either, but the notes are just loosely lodged between his index and middle fingertips. He moves his hand a fraction forward. You start shaking your head when you realise he’s being serious. “No, Jesus Christ, I can’t. I don’t even know your name.”

“Andrew,” he says it like it scraped his throat on the way out, but his eyes soften when you repeat it under your breath. A sacred thing on your tongue. He almost asks you to say it once more.

“I still can’t take this,” you shake your head again, smiling like you’re apologising. He is adamant in his stillness. “Look, I appreciate it, really. But—”

Before you can anticipate his movement, he’s swiftly slipping the cash into the front pocket of your shorts, tucking it in further even when you try to move away from him.

He steps back when you surrender, his arms hanging limp at his sides. You’re both frozen on opposite walls of the aisle with nothing but four feet and a heavy silence between you two. You start to breathe a little fast when guilt boils beneath your chest.

“It’s too much,” you bow your head and bury your face in your hands, conflicted. Under most circumstances, you’d take offence to the size of his insistence, the way his fingers demanded space for the notes in your pocket. The way he almost crowded you against the shelves behind your back, despite your attempts to swat him away.

But there were fractions of seconds where you caught the troubled crease in his brow as he fussed with your hands and your shorts. Part of his containment had cracked and sent pure anguish flashing across his face, like he’d fall apart in front of you if he couldn’t make you accept his offering. Didn’t seem motivated by pity, but rather driven by some anxious necessity.

You sniffle and audibly exhale into your palms.

His hands twitch with the ache to move. To fix. Bruised and bloodied as they are, he is overcome with the urge to wrap them around your wrists and uncover your face. Not to force you into baring the shame you’re trying to mask, but to fervidly show you that he is no stranger to it—the kind of shame that careens out of helplessness.

“For her,” he says quietly, almost pleading across the gap. Sam looks up at Pope from the floor. “Take it for her,” his voice wavers and he’s not entirely sure if he’s still referring to your child, or the one he entrusted to a family in the suburbs. The child for whom he would’ve moved mountains. And wouldn't he still? Isn't that why he continues to buy whatever he used to feed her and let it expire in the pantry? Isn't that why he's here?

You pull your hands away; eyes, glossy and red. The sight strikes him where it hurts, and he kicks himself for putting you under pressure.

He shifts on his feet, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean,” he pauses briefly, trying to breathe again, “to come on so strong.” Pope watches you dig the cash out of your pocket and reconfirm to yourself exactly how much he’s given you before you’re shaking your head again.

“Fine. I’ll…I’ll keep the 20,” you sift through the green notes in your hands, “but I am not taking the rest—”

“No, no,” he backs into the bread racks, a hand motioning in the air for you to keep the money to yourself. The moment you try to speak again, he’s off. Leaves you with nothing but a flat “goodbye” before charging down the aisle like you’re suddenly the last person he wants to see. Your heartbeat resounds in your skull.

Sam babbles about something but it’s nearly indecipherable because that man seems to have dragged all the sound away with him. Her calls accumulate and you’re pulled back into yourself. While you reluctantly slot all $150 into your wallet, your daughter reaches into the basket he left on the ground.

“What’ve you got there, Sammy?” You try to smile, coming to crouch down beside her.

Two jars. Smooth peanut butter and sweet strawberry jelly—that’s all he left. Of course, this aisle just indicates that he was initially looking for bread.

“Hmm,” you watch Sam twist the jars in the basket. “He’s a little funny, don’t you think?” You ask Sam, smoothing her hair back from her face, “An adult man shopping to make PB&J.”

You wonder, then, if he had intended to make sandwiches for a child, and have you prevented him from doing so? Did you really scare him away? You stall with Sam a little longer, guarding his basket with the pathetic hope that he might return.

One moment, and another longer. Your knees grow sore. You take the ache as your cue to leave.

next part

[airosuiren]

The Abandoned Wayne.

Bat Family x Neglected Reader x Tokyo Revengers

A/N: Omg I had this idea stuck in my head for AGES!!! Batfam neglect trope combined with Tokyo Revengers is literally my new obsession!!! Hope you enjoyyy this twisted tale of neglect, revenge, and finding your true family!!! (this DOES NOT follow cannon)

Part 2

Wayne Manor had two daughters, but only one that mattered.

You and Lila Wayne - twins born to Bruce Wayne through a brief relationship with a woman who disappeared shortly after your birth. Identical in appearance but worlds apart in treatment.

From the moment Bruce took you both in, it was clear who the favorite was.

Lila got the bigger bedroom. Lila got the newest clothes. Lila got Bruce’s proud smiles whenever she mastered a new gymnastics routine or brought home perfect grades. Lila was “the good twin” - the perfect Wayne daughter who fit seamlessly into Gotham’s elite circles.

You? You were the afterthought.

“Dad, I got an A+ on my science project,” you said, holding up your graded paper at age twelve.

Bruce barely looked up from where he was helping Lila with her homework. “That’s nice. Did you see Lila made the honor roll again? Third time this year.”

You lowered your paper slowly, the familiar ache spreading through your chest. “Yeah. Great job, Lila.”

Your sister smirked at you over Bruce’s shoulder, her eyes glittering with smug satisfaction.

It wasn’t just Bruce. Dick treated Lila like a princess, always bringing her souvenirs from his travels. Jason taught her self-defense but claimed you were “too clumsy” to learn. Tim shared his tech knowledge exclusively with Lila. Even Damian, though generally unpleasant to everyone, reserved his rare moments of tolerance for her.

Only Alfred seemed to notice you, slipping you extra cookies when no one was looking or patting your shoulder when you retreated to your room after another family gathering where no one acknowledged your presence.

“Patience, Miss [Y/N],” he would say. “Family can be… complicated.”

But your patience was running out.

By fifteen, you had stopped trying to earn their attention. You found solace in martial arts, training secretly at a local dojo where no one knew you were a Wayne. The feel of your fist connecting with a punching bag became your therapy, each strike fueled by years of being overlooked.

Then came the night that changed everything.

You returned from training to find the manor in chaos. Lila was sobbing in Bruce’s arms, her perfect face marred by a nasty bruise on her cheekbone. The entire family surrounded her protectively.

“What happened?” you asked, dropping your gym bag.

Six pairs of eyes turned to you, cold and accusing.

“As if you don’t know,” Lila hissed through tears.

Bruce stood slowly, his face transforming into something you’d only seen directed at Gotham’s criminals. “Lila says you attacked her when she confronted you about stealing her homework.”

Your blood ran cold. “What? I didn’t touch her! I’ve been at the dojo for the past three hours!”

“We found your hairbrush in her room,” Tim said, holding up an evidence bag like this was a crime scene. “And the bruise pattern matches your distinctive ring.”

You looked down at the simple silver band you always wore - a gift from Alfred on your twelfth birthday. The only birthday gift anyone in the manor had given you.

“This is ridiculous,” you protested. “I would never hurt Lila!”

But as you looked around at their faces - Bruce’s fury, Dick’s disappointment, Jason’s disgust, Tim’s clinical detachment, Damian’s contempt, and Lila’s exaggerated fear - you realized with crystal clarity: They had already decided you were guilty.

No trial. No defense. No presumption of innocence.

Even Alfred looked uncertain, standing back from the family circle, his eyes troubled.

“I’ve made a decision,” Bruce announced, his voice Batman-cold. “This behavior cannot continue. You’ve been acting out for years, but this crosses a line.”

“But I didn’t—”

“Enough!” Bruce cut you off. “I’m sending you to our associates in Tokyo. The Moriyama family owes me a favor. They’ll take you in, get you into a good school, and hopefully… straighten you out.”

Your world collapsed around you. “You’re sending me away? To Japan? Because of a lie?”

“It’s not a lie!” Lila wailed, burying her face against Dick’s chest. “She threatened to do worse next time!”

“Pack your things,” Bruce said flatly. “You leave tomorrow.”

That night, alone in your room, you didn’t cry. The hurt had crystallized into something harder, colder. More dangerous.

In the darkness, you made a vow: You would never beg for their love again. You would never again call Wayne Manor home. And someday, they would realize exactly what they had thrown away.

Alfred came to your door as you finished packing.

“Miss [Y/N],” he began, his elderly face lined with regret. “I don’t believe… that is to say, I find it difficult to imagine you would harm your sister.”

It was the closest thing to support you’d received, but it came too late.

“It doesn’t matter what you believe, Alfred,” you said quietly. “It never has.”

The flight to Tokyo was long and silent. Bruce didn’t accompany you - he sent his corporate assistant instead. Your final glimpse of Gotham through the plane window felt like watching a chapter of your life being forcibly closed.

The Moriyama family was polite but distant. They provided you with a small but comfortable apartment, enrolled you in a prestigious international school, and otherwise left you entirely alone.

Freedom, you discovered, was both terrifying and exhilarating.

For the first two months, you focused on school and perfecting your Japanese. You kept to yourself, the wound of your family’s betrayal still too fresh to risk new connections.

Then came the night you took a wrong turn walking home.

Three men cornered you in an alley - local thugs looking for an easy target. What they found instead was a Wayne with years of repressed rage and six months of intensive martial arts training.

When the dust settled, two were unconscious and the third was running away with a broken nose.

You were catching your breath, knuckles bloody, when you heard slow, appreciative clapping.

A tall, lean Japanese boy with bleached blond hair and an unsettling empty look in his eyes stood at the alley entrance. Despite his slender build, something about him radiated danger.

“Impressive,” he said in Japanese. “Where did you learn to fight like that?”

You straightened, wary but unafraid. “Gotham City.”

His smile widened, revealing a charm that didn’t quite reach those empty eyes. “I’m Sano Manjiro. Everyone calls me Mikey.”

“[Y/N],” you replied, deliberately omitting your last name. You weren’t a Wayne anymore, not in any way that mattered.

“You should come with me, [Y/N]-chan,” he said, turning to leave as if your agreement was a foregone conclusion. “I think my friends would like to meet you.”

Something about his absolute confidence, the casual way he had watched you fight without interfering, and yes - the dangerous aura that reminded you of the Bat Family at their most intimidating - made you follow him.

Kanto Manji headquarters turned out to be an abandoned building retrofitted with surprisingly comfortable furnishings. Inside, a group of young men looked up as Mikey entered with you in tow.

“Found something interesting,” Mikey announced, dropping onto a couch. “This is [Y/N]. She just took down three Tenjiku guys without breaking a sweat.”

“American?” asked a tall, serious-looking man with dark hair.

“Gotham,” you corrected.

Something in the way you said it - like the name of the city was a wound - made the room go quiet.

“I’m Sano Takemichi,” the serious one said. “That’s Hakkai, Chifuyu, Mitsuya, and the one eating all the food is Baji.”

Over convenience store bento boxes and cheap beer, you learned about Kanto Manji - a gang formed from the ashes of several others, now one of the most powerful in Tokyo. Their operations walked a fine line between legitimate business and underground empire.

You didn’t share your full story that night, but something in your eyes must have spoken to them. The way you fought. The way you carried yourself. The obvious absence of anyone looking for you or caring where you were.

“You got somewhere to stay?” Baji asked as the night grew late.

“An apartment,” you said. “But no one waiting there.”

Mikey, who had been unnervingly quiet for most of the evening, just watching you with those empty eyes, suddenly spoke: “You should work for us.”

The others looked surprised.

“Mikey,” Takemichi began cautiously, “we don’t even know her—”

“I know enough,” Mikey cut him off. “She fights like someone with nothing to lose. That’s valuable.”

You should have been offended. Instead, you felt a strange relief at being so perfectly understood.

“What would I do?” you asked.

Mikey smiled that disconnected smile again. “You’re from Gotham. Home of criminals and bats. I bet you know how to plan.”

And just like that, you found your place.

The Kanto Manji gang became your new family. Takemichi treated you like a little sister, always checking if you’d eaten or slept enough. Hakkai taught you Japanese street fighting to complement your formal training. Chifuyu, discovering your knack for strategy, spent hours discussing territory maps with you. Mitsuya even designed clothes specifically for you - practical but stylish outfits that became your signature look.

And Mikey… Mikey watched you. At first, it was unsettling - those empty eyes following your movements across rooms, his sudden appearances outside your apartment, his hand casually resting on your shoulder as if marking territory.

“He’s obsessed with you,” Hakkai warned about three months in. “Be careful.”

But the truth was, you didn’t mind. After years of being invisible, Mikey’s focused attention felt like water in a desert. He saw you. Really saw you.

Your tactical mind proved invaluable to the gang. You planned their operations with precision Batman himself might have admired - if he had ever bothered to notice your intelligence.

Within a year, your reputation spread through Tokyo’s underground. The foreign girl with the cold eyes and brilliant mind who stood at Mikey’s right hand. Some called you “The Ghost” because of how you seemed to appear from nowhere, always one step ahead.

Not once did Bruce or any of the Bat Family reach out. Not a call. Not an email. Not even Alfred. It was as if [Y/N] Wayne had ceased to exist the moment her plane left Gotham airspace.

On the night of your eighteenth birthday, Kanto Manji threw you a party that lasted until dawn. For the first time since arriving in Tokyo, you allowed yourself to fully relax, to laugh, to feel genuinely happy.

As the others finally passed out from too much sake, Mikey led you to the roof. The Tokyo skyline glittered before you, so different from Gotham’s gothic spires but beautiful in its own way.

“Happy birthday, [Y/N]-chan,” he said, producing a small black box.

Inside was a delicate silver chain with a pendant shaped like a crescent moon.

“Mikey, it’s beautiful,” you whispered as he fastened it around your neck.

“You’re mine now,” he said simply, his fingers lingering on your skin. “My strategist. My ghost.” His empty eyes seemed to fill with something like hunger. “My everything.”

You should have been frightened by the possessiveness. Instead, you felt a thrill. Someone wanted you. Not your sister. You.

When he kissed you, it felt like claiming and being claimed.

“Yes,” you agreed against his lips. “Yours.”

The next two years passed in a blur of power, respect, and a strange kind of happiness. Kanto Manji grew under your strategic guidance and Mikey’s fearsome leadership. You moved into his apartment, your foreign clothes mingling with his in the closet, your strategic plans spread across his dining table, your body wrapped in his arms each night.

His obsession never faded. If anything, it intensified. Mikey wanted to know where you were every moment. He called randomly just to hear your voice. He left marks on your skin where others could see them.

“It’s not healthy,” Takemichi told you once.

You just smiled. “Nothing about my life has ever been healthy.”

Besides, you thrived on Mikey’s attention. On being the center of someone’s world. On mattering.

You hadn’t spoken the name “Wayne” in three years when the past finally caught up to you.

It started with a text from a number you didn’t recognize:

They’re coming for you. Wayne Industries expanding to Tokyo. Family accompanying Bruce for the opening. Be prepared. - A

Alfred. It could only be Alfred.

You stared at the message for a long time before showing it to Mikey.

His reaction was immediate and intense. “They abandoned you. They don’t get to come back now.”

That night, he called an emergency meeting. The entire gang gathered as Mikey explained the situation.

“Wayne,” Baji spat the name like a curse. “The bastard who threw away our [Y/N]?”

“The same,” Mikey confirmed, his arm possessively around your waist. “They’re coming to Tokyo. Business, they say.”

“But really for [Y/N],” Hakkai finished, his eyes narrowing.

“What do you want to do?” Takemichi asked you directly. “It’s your call.”

You looked around at the faces watching you - these men who had become your brothers, your protectors, your true family. And Mikey, whose empty eyes filled only when looking at you, whose obsession had become your safety net.

“I want them to see exactly what they lost,” you said finally. “And who I’ve become without them.”

The gang nodded in unison.

“Then that’s what will happen,” Mikey declared, pressing a kiss to your temple. “They’ll see our Ghost. And they’ll regret the day they sent her to us.”

A week later, Wayne Enterprises opened its Tokyo branch with a lavish party. You watched from across the street as limousines delivered Gotham’s elite to the red carpet - including five tall, well-dressed men and one woman in a shimmering gown.

The Bat Family had arrived.

And they had no idea what was waiting for them.

A/N: There is a part 2 for thiss Please wait for itttt

[emilys-bangs]

giving you all my love | e.p

Tags: established relationship, drunk, flirty, clingy emily, reader taking care of her, fluff, emily’s unwavering commitment to romancing reader, author actually remembered that emily is indeed a multilingual and finally made use of it (minimally) (everyone cheered), use of petnames, no use of yn

Summary: Emily is drunk, unsubtle with her flirtation, and intent on getting you into her bed. You want very much the same thing—only for far less salacious reasons. Requested here.

Word count: 1.8k

“Close your eyes for me, honey.”

Emily’s cheeks bloom with a fresh burst of red. She grins star-bright, very nearly dazzling as she looks at you through spidery, mascara-clumped lashes you’re desperately trying to clean. 

“Love it when you call me that.” She sighs, leaning in to press a kiss to your shoulder. Your chests squish together, warmth doubling between your bodies as Emily lathers love at your collarbone.

“You’ve made that clear,” you hum. 

You’ve had almost an hour now to get used to your—heavily—intoxicated girlfriend’s antics. Almost an hour of increasingly slurred Spanglish, dimpled grins, and hot hands—all accompanied by a constant stream of warm, sticky-sweet flirtations from her alcohol soaked lips. 

To say you were surprised when you picked her up is an understatement. Emily isn’t easy to get drunk. But now she’s shitfaced—words mumbled, cheeks flushed, sticking to you like tar. She’d slithered onto your lap when you perched next to her on the bed, intending to remove her makeup, her warm thighs parting around your waist before you even fished a micellar wipe out of the pack. 

She’s currently working her way down the buttons of your shirt. It’s slow progress, what with her fumbling fingers and distracted lips. Her cheek is pressed to the cushion of your chest, nose skimming at whatever skin she can expose to her hungry, uncoordinated mouth. 

You love the attention, you do. But while it hasn’t grown old, you’re eager to get her into bed. 

“C’mon, Em, please. It won’t take long.”

“But y’so pretty to look at.” She mumbles, tilting her chin up slow. Her eyes drag up to yours with a sluggish reluctance, glittering prettily and all but eaten up with black. “Don’t wanna look away for a second.” Her lips edge into something dangerously close to a pout.

A ridiculous thrill zaps in your blood. “You’re such a flirt.” You chide, the makeup wipe drying in your hand. Cupping her cheek, you hold her still and gently drag it over her eyes. 

Emily grumbles under her breath. You laugh quietly, massaging the makeup out of her lashes. “You’ll thank me tomorrow.” You promise.

Something distinctly French this time. You ignore it and focus on your task of wiping her face squeaky clean. Her makeup is warm, glittery; designed to attract, make it impossible for anyone to drop their eyes from the boldly drawn line of her lips, the shimmer that trails down from her eyes and dusts across her cheekbones. The curls she’d styled her hair in have loosened, fluffed and limp, lying carelessly over her shoulders—presumably from all her dancing, if the red soles of her feet are any indication. 

And not to mention her dress. God, her dress.

Her dress that she insists on you taking off, never mind the easy zipper running down her side.

“Help me,” she says coyly, 110% unsubtle as she guides your hands to her waist. Warm palms knead over your knuckles, her fingers circling your wrists and thumbing the thin skin protecting your pulse.

Admittedly, it does jump under her touch. 

You’re not totally immune. The added warmth of her weight on your thighs makes your skin hotter than usual, pulse already a touch above normal.

You nudge her off of your lap and stand, tossing the soiled makeup wipe before swiftly pulling the zipper down. Her dress wilts open, tumbling down her side until it snags on her hips. Emily does nothing to hold it up; the fabric gathers at her waist and traps your hands under it. 

You can hear the dimples taking root in her cheeks.

“Nope.” You laugh, pulling your hands from hers as she presumably tries to get them on her skin. “Don’t get your hopes up, pretty girl. We’re going straight to bed, nothing more.”

Emily’s lips drag into a sulk. “C’est dommage,” she mutters, tilting her head and batting still ridiculously long lashes at you. “Sure I can’t tempt you?” Her voice sweetens, lined with silk and entirely useless in hiding the way her tongue stumbles over the words. You chew the inside of your cheek against a smile.

“Another time.”

A dramatic groan, and suddenly she’s leaning her entire body weight against you. You huff out a laugh into her hair, the breath briefly knocked from your lungs as you stumble back and catch her. “Jesus, Emily. How much have you had to drink?”

A giggle gets muffled into your chest. 

A giggle. Christ, your heart aches. She’ll be the death of you, you think, far more fond than you should be as you thread your fingers through her loose curls and feel the slide of them against your skin. 

It’s hard not to swell with affection when she places herself in your trust so completely. Every muscle in her body is relaxed and pulled loose, leaning heavily against yours. All she’s preoccupied with is nuzzling her nose into whatever warm crevice she can find, her fingers skimming patterns on your hips, and while she’s done this countless times before—fully sober, eyes focused and sharp—there’s something about her undeniable sincerity in this moment that makes it feel inherently more precious.

Your insides flutter, and not because of Emily’s wandering fingertips over your shirt. Vibrations of her voice echo off of your bones, sporadic and uneven—the beat of her laughter. Gently, you tilt her face to yours, only catching a glimmer of her eyes before pressing your lips to hers.

Her laugh bubbles on your tongue when you kiss it off, golden and sparkly. Emily’s lips stretch so wide it hardly constitutes a kiss, but something about the act makes you glow from the inside nonetheless. You feel yourself melt under her influence and her flirting, gone soft with the weight of the open vulnerability she trusts you with. It does make getting her into bed ten times harder than it should’ve been—and makes her staying in bed ten times harder when you leave to get her a glass of water—but there’s really nothing else you’d rather be doing. Helping your girlfriend into her pajamas, wiping frothy toothpaste off her chin before it drips onto your shirt that she insisted on wearing to bed, is one of the greatest privileges of your life.

She’s face down on your pillow when you return, raven hair eating away at the white covers. You nudge it away from her face and smile when she lazily cracks open one eye, squinting at you through her lashes. Recognition is slow to come as you set the glass on the nightstand, but when it does, a smile tugs at her lips.

“My darling.” Her words drip with a loving drawl.

“My love,” you whisper, bending to wedge your hand under her side and sit her up. She braces herself, hands rising up to your shoulders and fingers hooking into your shirt.

“Been thinkin’. Do y’think the stars talk to each other?” She rasps, her voice quiet with drowsiness. Her body is pliant, easy to manipulate up against the headboard. “I mean, it must be lonely all up in space. Everythin’ is light years away.” The words get eaten up in a yawn.

“They’d have to be sentient to be lonely,” you murmur placidly, accustomed to strange questions when your girlfriend is in this state. You brush a kiss against the available skin under your lips. “I don’t think you have to worry about the stars’ feelings, sweetheart.”

“But they’re pretty. Glittery.”

“And not lonely.” You reassure.

Emily’s hum is thick with sleep. When she’s sitting fully upright, you hand her the glass. “Chug”—a quick peck to her mouth—“please.”

A little sigh parts her lips. “Anythin’ for you,” she slurs, eyes drooping as she takes a big gulp of water. Some of it spills on her shirt, soaking the fabric darker and sticking it to her body. 

You wipe the shine of the water off of her chin. In the two minutes you’ve been gone, her energy has completely fizzled out. Her gaze is unfocused and blurry, limbs moving clunkily as she downs the water. She’s miles away from her usual catlike grace, the piercing sharpness of her eyes dulled to something soft with sleep—and now, reverence.

It’s not that you don’t know what a drunk Emily looks like, it’s just that each inebriated version of her takes you by surprise every time. Sometimes she’s whiny and fit to burst with complaints (her feet, the itch of her clothes, the sticky tack of her drying makeup), sometimes she’s just sleepy—others strangely shy, flushing and losing her train of thought at the slightest of compliments from you. You’ve heard nonsensical ramblings and silky smooth flirtations.

All drunk Emily’s share two things: she can’t let go of you, and she can’t keep English straight on her tongue.

The glass is only just safely deposited on Emily’s nightstand. She slots herself into your chest before you even fully settle into bed, your back still curved above the plush softness of her pillow. Her forehead finds its home on your shoulder, but she pulls back to look at you before your muscles can dip under its weight, the pitch black of her pupils reflecting your face.

“I love you.” Her mouth barely parts around the words, but you know the shape of them well.

“I love you,” you whisper, shifting her down with you until you’re both lying with your heads on your pillows. When you lean over to kiss the tip of her nose, her exhale puffs over your chin, belated and warm.

“No, no, y’don’t get it. You—you make my heart go woah.” Her hands move in meaningless bursts, long fingers unfurling from fists and spreading wide with a flick of her wrists. You stifle an amused smile into one such wrist, lips tracing the blue lines of her veins. 

A visible drum beats in the divot of Emily’s hand. 

“See?” Her drowsy eyes go wide for a second. “It gets all—all warm and fast, and I can’t,” she shakes her head, hair rustling on the pillow, “no puedo controlarlo.”

Your smile finally splits beneath your teeth.

“Okay Casanova.” You laugh softly, tucking Emily’s arm back to her side. She curls it around your waist, moves from her pillow to yours, then your chest.

“Call me honey again.” She mumbles into your shirt. “Or Em.” A small beat—then, shyly, “Like it when y’say that.”

“I know you do, sweetheart.”

Emily giggles, her skin hot where it presses against yours. “You’re tryin’ to kill me.” She accuses. Her leg worms its way between yours.

You rub soothingly at her hip, noting the increased stickiness of her words. You haven’t got much time left with your giggly lover. “I love you too much to do that. But,” you kiss the shell of her ear, “it’s nice to see you getting a taste of your own medicine.”

“I’m that bad?” Emily yawns, daring to sound astounded.

You kiss her forehead next. “Honey”—her breath catches—“you’re so much worse.”

taglist: @suckerforcate @sickoherd @lextism @catssluvr @i-lovefandom @haiklya @justhereforthosefics @storiesofsvu @ashluvscaterina @basicallyvivi @temilyrights @professorsapphic @decadentcatcrusade

[moonstruckme]

I love your work! I spent so long yesterday reading through just about all of them and you are an incredible writer! I have a request but regardless if you want to write it, I can’t wait to read what you write next!!

Request: I would love to have a fic with any of the marauders (+lily) (single or poly pairings) that are helping the reader on a bad chronic illness day. Due to their chronic illness, the reader’s body feels really weak so they need help from their partner(s).

Thanks so much angel! <3

cw: unspecified chronic illness, only explicit specificity is that reader has really low energy as a result of it

poly!Jily x fem!reader ♡ 743 words

Sometimes, James can’t help but stop and think about how ridiculously lucky he is. He was worried about you all day at work—you weren’t feeling well when he left that morning, though you’d claimed you were going to take it easy—but there’s no sweeter sight to come home to than you and Lily curled up together on the bed, your head on her chest and her fingers in your hair. James’ heart slows to a lovesick thump-thump as he watches you. 

“Do you think you have the energy for a shower?” Lily murmurs. 

You make a small sound to the negative. 

“No? Okay.” Lily kisses your hairline, consoling. “How about a bath, love?” 

Her eyes flicker up to James, telling him she’s heard his entry whereas you seem not to have. The sad uptilt of her lips tells him you’ve had as hard a day as he worried you might. He takes off his shoes, moving toward you. 

“I could wash your hair for you,” Lily goes on, coaxing. “Add some of those oils you like.” 

James is just barely close enough to hear your mumbled reply. “I don’t know if there’s time.”

“There’s always time for a nice bath, isn’t there?” he asks lightly. Grins when you look up, noticing him. “Hi, angel.” 

“Hi.” You sit up for a kiss. James meets you halfway, folding an arm around your back to help support you. 

He gives Lily a kiss, too, sparing an extra for the worried line between her brows. 

“What are we worried about time for?” he asks. 

“She wants to go to dinner with her friend’s mum.” 

“I don’t want to,” you say, sinking back against Lily’s front the way Remus sinks into his chair after a long, long day, “I’m supposed to.” 

James feels his lips tug. “Well, there you have it, lovie. You don’t want to, so don’t.” 

“She’s visiting from out of town, and she asked to see me,” you mumble. You seem reluctant, like you’re fighting for a cause you don’t truly believe in yourself. “It’d be rude not to go.” 

“It’s not rude. You don’t have the energy for a shower,” Lily reminds you gently. “It doesn’t make any sense for you to go.” 

Your lips pull down, fretfulness lined with resignation. 

“Do you know where she’s staying?” James asks. 

“Yeah.” 

“Why don’t we give her a ring at her hotel, then, and let her know you’re not feeling well. I’m sure she’ll understand.” 

You look to be gnawing the inside of your lip, but James recognizes the slow wash of relief over your features. “Okay. That could work.” 

“It’ll work great. And then, say, you could think on what might sound good to you for dinner here at home.” James begins tracing the planes of your face as he talks, down your cheekbone from the corner of your eye, up the bridge of your nose, and across your opposite eyebrow. “I’ll go to the store once you decide, and you two can have your bath while I whip dinner up for us. Okay?” 

Lily holds you to her so she can lean forward without jostling you, kissing James ardently on his cheek. 

“I think that’s a lovely plan,” she says while he grins. 

You’re smiling, too, looking at them with much the same expression James imagines he wore when he came home to find the two of you together. “You don’t have to go to the store,” you say. “We have food here, don’t we?” 

“Probably,” James agrees. “But you’ve had a long day, you deserve to have whatever you want for dinner. At the least.” 

You open your mouth, but James speaks again. 

“And if you say you want frozen lasagna or butter on toast or the leftovers from last night, I won’t believe you.” 

Your smile goes sheepish, caught. 

“Why don’t you think on that,” Lily suggests, “and James, could you bring me the phone book so I can look up the hotel?” 

“Be right back,” he says, kissing both you and Lily again before he hops up. Lily takes his jaw in her hand, kissing him hard and with gratitude. It’s the sort of kiss that leaves James trying to blink himself back into focus as he leaves the room. 

He must look it, too, because your laugh, arguably the loveliest sound on Earth, follows him out. “Thanks, Jamie,” you say. 

Yeah, James is definitely the luckiest guy in the world.

[drabbles-mc]

Lucky For You

Tyler Owens x F!Reader

Warnings: 18+, fluff, mentions of hospitals/injuries, no use of "y/n"

Word Count: 1.4k

A/N: earlier tonight i lied to myself and said i wouldn't work on any new oneshots until i finished a wip. but I've been marinating on this idea since last week and i just had to write it down. just a short cute little fluffy somethin'! my first twisters fic. hope you enjoy!

You were shaking your head as you walked back over to the side of the picnic table that Tyler was sitting at. You had a beer bottle in one hand, the other resting on Tyler’s shoulder as you stepped in so you could plop back down beside him at the table.

“I’m still trying to figure out what you guys told Lily to say,” you gestured to Lily then Kate with the bottom of your beer bottle before taking a quick sip, “to get Kate to cave so quickly.” You gave Lily a playful smile. “What’d you say to convince her? Hm? ‘Cause lord knows it wasn’t either of these two,” you said as you nodded to Tyler first, then Boone.

Both men looked at you with dramatic looks of offense. “What?” Tyler asked, grin starting to curl his lips as he spoke. “You don’t think we were charming or convincing enough on our own?”

You rolled your eyes as he draped his arm around you. “No, I don’t.”

It got another wave of laughter. Tyler took the momentary distraction as an opportunity to lean in and kiss your temple. “Seemed to work just fine on you.” He reached across and stole your beer bottle from you, taking a sip before allowing you to snatch it back. “And you said yes to a way more dangerous proposition.”

You shook your head even though you were smiling, even though you could feel your cheeks warming. It was no great secret, or even breaking news at this point after the last few years you’d spent married to the ridiculous man sitting on the picnic table bench next to you. Sometimes, though, you couldn’t help the cheesy grin that crossed your face when you became a little more aware than usual of the wedding band on your hand.

“That’s different,” you said, not that it mattered, not that it helped your case at all as Tyler continued to nettle you good-naturedly.

“How’d you two meet, anyway?” Kate asked.

It was a fair question. You didn’t chase with the rest of them, never had. You’d met and fallen in love with Tyler before he decided to make a career out of it. The journey wasn’t always a smooth or easy one, but you never doubted him, or your relationship, not even for a second. Even in the hard times. A lot can happen over the course of six years, but you still clearly remembered when you first met him.

Tyler had started watching you the second he realized where Kate’s question was going. He watched the little twitches and shifts of your hands and facial expressions as you went rapid-fire back down memory lane. When you ended up with a little smirk on your face, he knew that you were all too happy to tell the story.

You took another drink from your beer bottle before just handing it back to Tyler, rather than trying to make him steal it again. “When I met Tyler, I’d say about, oh, seventy percent? Yeah, seventy. About seventy percent of his face was covered in bruises and bumps. Fractured cheekbone, split lip.” You turned and looked at him even though you were talking to Kate. “He was lookin’ real cute.”

She laughed, but you could see the mild confusion in her eyes as she looked back and forth between the two of you. “You find him after a rough chase, or…?”

You smiled and shook your head. “We met back before he was the infamous Tornado Wrangler.” Leaning forward, you braced your arms flat on the picnic table, Tyler’s hand sliding from your shoulder down to the center of your back, his palm warming you through your tank top. “They brought him to the hospital that I work at after he got stomped out by a bull at the rodeo.” You felt his fingers drumming against your back and your smile stretched a little wider. “I wasn’t even supposed to be checkin’ in on anyone in the wing he was in, but the nurse who was supposed to help discharge him had to leave.”

Tyler had a cocky little smirk on his face. “Lucky for you though.”

You gave him a look that didn’t pack nearly as much of a punch as it should of since you were grinning. “Yeah, real lucky for me that Jay’s kid got in a fight at school so he had to leave and he left you to me.”

Tyler laughed. “He was cute but I gotta say, I think you’re a little cuter.”

You gave him a playful shove, which he responded to by looping his arm around your waist and pulling you closer again. You shook his head at him before looking back at Kate. “Anyway, as I was saying. I go into his room to talk through some of the paperwork with him, and with one eye practically swollen shut still this man right here is tryin’ to get my number.”

“Actually, if I remember right—”

“You were concussed into next Tuesday—I doubt you remember much of anything right.”

“If I remember,” he repeated with a laugh, “I was actually tellin’ you that you should just jot my number down from my patient forms so you could call me sometime.”

You looked at Kate with a feigned nonplussed look. “Told me somethin’ about making a ‘house call’. Real bold for a man who was about half an inch away from some serious brain damage.”

“Probably what gave him the confidence to ask in the first place,” Lily piped up with a laugh.

Everyone was laughing, and listening. Kate might’ve been the only one in present company who hadn’t heard the story before, but it wasn’t as though it was something that the two of you were constantly rehashing all the time. The two of you usually kept the retellings amusing enough anyway, allowing the rest of the crew to throw in their two cents even though they hadn’t been there when it all started. After all, Tyler might’ve been the one you met first, and under some pretty dire conditions, but you’d been around to help out the rest of the team plenty of times since then. Whether you were making sure they were all alright after a rough chase, or meeting up with them in the towns that had been blown through to see who you could help even if you weren’t off the clock. You might not have chased with the rest of them, but you were still part of the team.

“How long did it take for him to wear you down, then?” Kate asked.

 The shit-eating grin on Tyler’s face grew tenfold. He lightly bumped his shoulder against yours. “Go ahead. Tell her.”

You dropped your forehead so that it rested on top of your forearms for a moment before looking up and at Kate again. “I gave him my number after I pushed him to the lobby in his wheel chair.”

“Doctor’s orders, by the way,” he interjected with a shake of his head. “I didn’t need it.”

You rolled your eyes but kept going. “He was pretty persistent the whole way down, so I told him if he still remembered my name and number by the time his fractures all healed up, I’d meet him for a cup of coffee or somethin’.”

“Cup of coffee ended up bein’ a split six-pack and a failed bonfire at her cousin’s place, by the way,” he added on with a chuckle.

“Yeah, and your lip still wasn’t fully healed.”

He smirked. “Didn’t stop you though.” You lightly swatted his chest with the back of your hand but you didn’t say anything to refute his statement. “So really, what I’m hearin’, is that you shouldn’t be havin’ any doubts about our charms.”

“Sayin’ yes to a date is nothing like—”

“You also said yes to marryin’ him,” Lily added on, always happy to stir the pot just a little. “Y’know, with the ring that he almost lost in a chase.”

Tyler rolled his eyes. “If I left it at home I was sure she’d find it!”

“Yeah,” Lily laughed as she argued, “and if the chase went wrong somebody on the other end of the county would find it. Then what?”

Tyler laughed and shrugged. “Corner store sells Ring Pops.”

You had no shot at tamping down your smile. “Prob’ly still would’ve said yes, too.”

(divider by @saradika 💞)

Twisters Taglist (please let me know if you'd like to be added to any of my taglists): @garbinge

[xoxo-lixie]

Passenger Princess ᝰ.ᐟ

Paring- Hyunjin x Reader

Summary-Y/N embraces her role as Hyunjin’s passenger princess during a Saturday drive

It was a bright, sunny Saturday morning, and Y/N was in her usual spot in Hyunjin’s car: the passenger seat. The sleek black car glided down the street as Hyunjin navigated the light weekend traffic with ease. The windows were cracked open, letting in a cool breeze that played with the ends of her hair. She was stretched out comfortably, one leg tucked under her, a pink cup in the cupholder, and her phone in her hand, scrolling through her playlist.

Hyunjin, with his freshly buzzed haircut, looked effortlessly good as he drove. The short cut accentuated his sharp jawline and cheekbones, making him look even more striking than usual. His hand rested casually on the steering wheel, while the other occasionally tapped along to the beat of the music she’d put on.

“You’re really living the life, huh?” he said, glancing over at her with a teasing smile.

She glanced up from her phone and raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“You. Just sitting there, sipping your overpriced drink, doing nothing,” he said, smirking as he turned his attention back to the road. “Passenger princess at its finest.”

“Excuse me,” she said, feigning offense as she dramatically placed a hand on her chest. “I am not doing nothing. I’m curating the perfect driving playlist for you. That’s a very important job.”

Hyunjin chuckled, shaking his head. “Oh, is that what you’re calling it?”

“Yes,” she said confidently, leaning back in her seat and taking a sip of her drink. “And you should be grateful. Not everyone gets a passenger princess as great as me.”

He laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “You’re ridiculous.”

���And you love me anyway,” she shot back with a smug smile, crossing her legs and settling deeper into her seat.

Hyunjin rolled his eyes, but the fondness in his expression was unmistakable. “Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, but his smile didn’t fade.

As they drove, Y/N fell into her usual routine of pointing out random things.

“Oh, look at that dog!” she exclaimed suddenly, leaning forward to point out a golden retriever sticking its head out of a passing car window.

Hyunjin glanced over and chuckled. “It’s cute. Want to trade places with it? Let the dog sit in the passenger seat instead?”

“Wow,” she said, narrowing her eyes at him. “After everything I do for you?”

“Everything? Like what?” he asked, side-eyeing her with a grin.

“Like keeping you entertained, feeding you snacks, and providing you with good music,” she replied, ticking off each point on her fingers.

“Oh, right. How could I forget?” he said sarcastically, shaking his head. “You’re truly indispensable.”

“Exactly,” she said proudly, popping a gummy into her mouth.

They drove in comfortable silence for a while, the playlist shifting to a softer, slower song. Y/N tilted her head to watch Hyunjin as he drove, admiring how the sunlight highlighted the smooth curve of his buzzed head and the sharp lines of his profile. His free hand rested on his thigh, and she had the sudden urge to grab it.

“You’re staring,” he said suddenly, his voice amused but his eyes still on the road.

“Maybe,” she said, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Can you blame me? You’re hot.”

Hyunjin let out a soft laugh, his cheeks turning the faintest shade of pink. “Stop. You’re going to distract me.”

“Good,” she teased. “You deserve to be a little flustered.”

He glanced over at her briefly, his lips curving into a smirk. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re stuck with me,” she said with a shrug, reaching over to grab his hand and lace her fingers with his.

Hyunjin gave her hand a squeeze, his smile softening. The car came to a stop at a red light, and before Y/N could say anything else, he leaned over and pressed a quick kiss to her lips. It was warm and soft, his lips lingering for just a moment longer than necessary.

When he pulled back, Y/N blinked at him, her heart fluttering in her chest. “What was that for?” she asked, her voice softer now.

“Just felt like it,” he said, his smile widening as he turned back to the road. The light turned green, and the car started moving again.

Y/N leaned back in her seat, a goofy grin spreading across her face. “You’re such a sap sometimes,” she muttered, though her tone was laced with affection.

Hyunjin chuckled, keeping his eyes on the road. “And you love me anyway,” he echoed her earlier words, his voice playful.

“Yeah, I do,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper as she squeezed his hand.

The rest of the drive passed in comfortable silence, the kind that only existed between two people completely at ease with each other. Y/N sat back, fully embracing her role as his passenger princess, and Hyunjin drove with a content smile on his face, his hand still holding hers.

[bloodstainedsapphic]

becoming ellie williams' personal nurse was absolutely not part of your grand plan. in fact, being ellie williams’ anything hadn’t crossed your mind until an unexpected run-in left you the only one available to patch her up after a rough patrol. you’d spoken fewer than ten times before that, but after that night, ellie unilaterally decided you were the only person allowed to help her when she got injured. you didn’t fuss as much as maria, or dina, or anyone else—and that was enough for her. or at least, that’s what she claimed. it certainly didn’t hurt that you were cute.

that's how you found yourself falling into a routine—ellie 'just happening' to show up at your door, flashing those worn green eyes and grumbling about how "it's not that bad" to garner enough pity until you inevitably caved and fixed her up, sparing her yet another lecture from maria.

tonight was no different. she lingered outside, shifting her weight like she was debating whether to knock. but since this had become clockwork, you were already pulling the door open, and she shuffled inside uttering a, “don’t make a big deal out of it.”

you sighed, already moving to nab your ever-growing stash of first-aid supplies as she dropped into your desk chair. ellie had tried to clean herself up beforehand, but it was fruitless—her green jacket, the one now being hastily shrugged off, had been covering the worst of it. a deep gash on her arm, the lingering traces of a nosebleed, fresh cuts along her cheek. she’d been through hell and back.

"ellie," your voice carried a warning as you approached, reaching out to cautiously inspect her wounded arm. "this isn't just some scrape." ellie exhaled sharply through her nose, taking the accosting while settling in the chair she'd visited many times already. "it's nothing. i don't want maria finding out and pulling me off patrols."

your lips pressed into a thin line, but you didn't protest further. you knew how much patrol meant to her—how she needed it. how ellie seemed to rely on it to feel like she provided something useful to jackson. so instead, you got to work, gently cleaning the cuts along her forearm. ellie winced as the antiseptic hit raw skin, her fingers twitching against her thigh. unfortunately, the cut had grazed her tatted arm. you made a valiant effort to be delicate enough to mend the cut without disturbing the tattoo—luckily, it had missed the chemical burn ellie said she'd gotten on that arm years ago.

"oh, stop whining," you chided over her complaints. "shouldn't you be used to the pain by now? little masochist. and what's with you aiming for this poor arm so much? you've got two to work with, you know.” ellie scoffed at your chastizing, biting the inside of her cheek as her expression shifted to annoyance but not full offense. "right, lemme plan my injuries better next time."

you dabbed at a shallow abrasion beneath her cheekbone. ellie's eyes flickered up, trying to capture yours, but you wouldn't budge from the injury. she bit her crimson-stained lip, like she was weighing her next words wisely. "you keep patching me up, though. makes me wonder... i mean, i dunno..." ellie stilted her delivery, partly out of nerves, partly to grab your attention. "maybe you like seein' me all banged up," her tone took on a pitchy lilt as she kept peeking up at you.

the way she said it—less of a tease, a tad second-guessing, trying to dare a reaction out of you—made your stomach do something stupid.

"a better patient would stop causing such a distraction," you shot back, deliberately avoiding her gaze while keeping with the 'strict nurse' facade. you couldn't suppress a hint of a smirk though, briefly wiping your mouth to try and shield the small break over her nervous attempt at flirting. you just hated how right she was—no one was forcing you to do this, to put up with her maddening stubbornness and save her hide time and time again. all ellie had to do was bat those ridiculously pretty greens, and your defenses crumbled.

ellie huffed, pleased with your accidental admission but now more determined to coax more from you. she shifted slightly—and that's when you felt it. the light press of her fingers against the dip of your waist, like she had just meant to steady herself but forgot to pull away. her fingers curled slightly into the fabric of your shirt, sending a shiver up your spine. you said nothing, pretending not to notice. maybe she hadn't even meant to. you'd both insist, later, it was simply the sting of the antiseptic anyway, as if she hadn't weathered worse injuries before. neither of you moved.

ellie couldn't disguise her beaming when your strict charade allowed the gesture. she swallowed, like she was trying to decide whether to try her luck. her fingers tapped your side, hesitant.

“i think you're helping me all the time 'cause you've got a soft spot for me."

your breath hitched, warmth creeping up your neck, but you weren't about to let her win that easily. with a little head shake, you willfully regained your composure and lightly patted ellie's uninjured cheek before schooling your expression. "hush. you're being disorderly. i can't fix you up with all this blabbering."

ellie let out an exaggerated hiss, scrunching her eyes shut dramatically. your stomach clenched in brief panic, helper mode reigniting—until you realized she was full of shit, twisting her head like she'd been mortally wounded when, in reality, you had barely touched her.

"you're impossible," you muttered, smacking her good arm lightly in playful retaliation. "your life is in my hands. don't forget that." ellie leaned forward just enough to close the space between you, her voice dropping. "yeah, yeah, and every time i show up like this, i'm choosing to put my trust in you."

she wavered briefly, then added, softer still—only brave enough to say it now because she was already committed to the bit—"and that’s also why you won’t look at me."

you froze, and the second you met her gaze, it was over—long lashes framing those round green eyes, a smattering of freckles, some loose auburn strands that had escaped her barely-held-together bun sticking to her skin from the leftover sweat of patrol. with scraped skin and blood-streaked face, ellie was a proper mess—and yet, here you were, fighting every aching urge screaming at you to throw yourself on top of her.

you swallowed hard. the unassuming, bashful, loserish ellie was nowhere to be found. replaced by an ellie probably still riding the adrenaline of her close call with a horde of infected earlier, caring a little less about the consequences of her words and even further fueled by your easily cracked stoicism.

ellie seized your defeated, flustered silence to keep going. "also, as my nurse, i'm surprised you don't know the best cure for any injury."

you inhaled to brace for whatever nonsense was about to come out of her mouth. "oh, yeah? what's that?"

".....a kiss."

a drawn-out groan escaped you. "jesus," you muttered, cheeks burning. but fine—just this once. you weren't giving in completely, but you leaned in, pressing a fleeting peck to the tip of her nose.

the way ellie's face immediately split into a stupidly giddy grin was almost worth it. almost. her whole expression flushed a rosy pink, too.

"oh, on the nose? that barely counts," ellie teased, her voice dipping into something softer, more expectant. definitely hoping she hadn’t pushed her luck too much.

"deal with it, williams," you murmured, but your mind was already betraying you.

despite your best efforts, you couldn’t stop yourself from wondering what it would be like if you really gave in. if you disregarded all medical safety and climbed into her lap and kissed her senseless, letting your hands explore each other in desperation and recklessly savoring the taste of metallic red left on her soft lips.

snapping yourself from that less-than-holy thought, you deflected under the guise of needing to retrieve more supplies for another small cut you had overlooked.

when you came back, ellie was still watching you, something unreadable in her expression. you hesitated for a moment, then finally gave her a little glimmer of hope to cling to.

"tell you what," you started. "don't be an idiot—which i know is hard for you—and let everything heal," you let the jab sit for a second to build suspense, "and i’ll grant you the other half of that kiss."

ellie's smile widened triumphantly, though her posture was beginning to laze as exhaustion from the day's chaos caught up with her.

"anything for the nurse."

"yeah, yeah. now hold still so i can finish fixing you up."

and, for once, ellie williams actually listened. pic creds @/elliesgalaxy

[paperbackribs]

Eddie is crouched against skull rock, everyone talking around him about fantastical creatures and he can barely breathe as they discuss terrible things like they're normal happenings.

Max has earphones resting at her collarbone and Eddie thinks he might go crazy with every opening beat from Kate Bush that he can only just hear over their planning, but somehow that still makes it worse.

His breath is wheezing in and out when he feels a heavy hand land on his shoulder.

"Are you alright, man," Steve Harrington asks him in the forest clearing like it's natural for the king to talk to the freak. He easily squats down, knee to knee with Eddie and regards him with a steady gaze. "This is pretty fucked, right?"

Eddie laughs wetly, rubbing at the corner of his eye even as he fiercely hopes that it stays dry. "Fucking A, yeah."

It's Steve's turn to be amused, exhaling in a short puff like he hadn't expected that Eddie would make him laugh. Especially, he muses darkly, in the middle of a man hunt against him.

"We'll get Vecna," Steve promises, looking down the barrel of Eddie's panic that will be soon to rise. "We always get 'em."

And it's the darndest thing, especially for Eddie who's open to the fantastical but closed to hope in the real world, but he believes him.

Steve stretches out an arm, resting his palm over the back of Eddie's hand, the sensation as new as he wants it to be familiar, and Eddie feels himself unlock, unfurling like a bloom turning to the sun that is Steve.

"You promise?" It's ridiculous. Eddie knows how stupid it is to ask a mortal boy to vow that their awful adventures will result in a happy ending. But gods' blood above, Eddie feels like a blessing now will unravel an unexpected truth within.

A moment passes. A millisecond. A half of a half of a half, but Steve regards him with a heavy weight. His hand rising and thumb barely grazing his cheekbone, "I promise, Eddie Munson. You will live beyond this moment. You will survive and thrive and leave this piss-ant town behind. I promise. I goddamn swear that I will make it happen if it's the last thing I do in this life."

Steve's eyes are blazing. In the dim light of the shadowy trees, Eddie is hopeless but to fall under his words and believe the earnest beat of them.

And, even after he wakes up one hundred days earlier, he has no idea why he has the vague feeling that if he encounters Steve Harrington today that he should trust him.

But he will.

[skzdarlings]

the demonstration ; skz ; jeongin x reader

requested by anonymous: you keep your hands where they are or i'll tie them up. ❜ w Jeongin? 😩 please 🥰. requested by anonymous: I.N AND ❛ do whatever you want with me, i'm yours. ❜ ❛ you taste like heaven. ❜ PLEASE IF YOU CAN BEGGING YOU

pairing: yang jeongin/reader content info: friends to lovers. reader asks jeongin if he has ever made someone squirt and if so please show her hehe. reader mentions a bad date with a rude guy who called her high-strung. squirting, pussy-eating, riding, just a good time lol. explicit sexual content. word count: 4000 words.

masterlist. part of the valentine’s day stories series. credit to prompts. requests are closed.

enjoy <3

-

Jeongin is finally awake when you return to his apartment.  You visited this morning but he must have had a late night because the flat was dark and silent when you let yourself in. You went for a stroll, hoping the fresh air would clear your mind, but what you really needed was him.  A conversation with Jeongin always improves your mood.  Just thinking about those deep dimples brings out your own smile.  

“Hi there,” you say sweetly.  You close the door and replace your shoes with the slippers he keeps for you.  You bound up to the kitchen counter.  “Can I ask you something?”  

Jeongin clearly just rolled out of bed.  Far from glamourous, your nonetheless very handsome friend is wearing a hoodie and sweatpants and his black thick-rimmed glasses.  He has the hood pulled over his head, his dishevelled black hair peeking out.  A bowl of ramen sits in front of him, though his sleepy gaze is on his phone, long ringed fingers curled around the device. 

You look at those fingers thoughtfully, your mouth a little drier than before.  Maybe this isn’t such a good idea after all…

It’s too late.  Jeongin emerges from the slumped cavern of his hoodie, lifting his bespectacled face.  He dutifully puts his phone facedown on the counter.   Pushing his sleeves to his elbows, he says, “Of course.  Hi.  How are—”  He yawns before he can finish.  The yawn breaks into a wheezy little laugh.   

You take the seat across from him at the kitchen island and watch him twirl his chopsticks.  Nimble fingers flip them around before he digs into his noodles, slurping a little ungracefully.  He swallows almost half the bowl in a scoop.  Your eyes are still on his hands.   

“Jeongin,” you say.  “Have you ever—oh, no, thank you.” 

He is holding out a clump of noodles on his chopsticks.  When you decline, he shoves it in his own mouth. 

“Jeongin,” you say again.  “Have you ever made a girl squirt?”

He chokes on the noodles.  It gets ugly quick.  You emit a little squeak of your own when he thumps on his chest so hard that his hood falls back and his glasses fall off.  He hacks up the noodles and spits some across the island. 

“Are you okay?” you ask.     

“I’m fine,” he says in a rough voice, squinting hard like a beleaguered puppy.  He fumbles with his glasses, blinking quickly once they are back on his face.   Then he reaches for his water bottle and unscrews it with a flick of his fingers.  He rubs his chest while drinking.

You purse your lips, watching him.  His profile is so defined, his jaw so sharp and cheekbones high.  He really is ridiculously handsome.  And those hands.  You look at the prominence of the veins running down his forearm, the subtle strength in his slender form, the long easy grace of his fingers.  If any man is turning women into waterfalls, it must be him.

“So,” you say, “have you ever done it?”

He chokes on his water, but not as dramatically as the noodles.  It’s a messy hiccup and he dribbles water down his chin, barely catching it in the cup of his hand.  He puts the bottle aside and wipes his hand on his thigh. 

“I don’t think I understand the question,” he finally says. 

“What? ‘Have you ever made a girl squirt?’” you ask, tipping your head.  “Sorry, what’s confusing?”

“Um.”  He looks at you in bewilderment.  “The part where you are asking me it?” 

“Oh.”  A little – okay, a lot of embarrassed heat explodes in your chest.  It radiates out with rapid-fire speed, scalding your neck and your face. 

You lower your gaze.  His dark eyes and expressive brows are now too intense for you.  You fiddle with your fingers in your lap, thumbs pushing at each other. 

“Well,” you say, slowly.  You look anywhere but him. “Something sort of happened.”

When you chance an upward glance, he is looking at you very studiously.   

“Sort of…” he says, looking more confused by the second.  “Did you… sort of… squirt?”

You cover your face, suddenly embarrassed beyond words.  Why did this seem like a good idea again?  You were so convinced a few minutes ago that this was a totally fine conversation to have with your friend.  Now you want the floor to open up and swallow you whole. 

You make a miserable little sound into your palms and Jeongin finally laughs.  His whole face crinkles with delight and he laughs so hard that it sounds like he can barely breathe.

“Don’t laugh at me!” you wail. 

“I’m not, I’m not,” he lies, because he is laughing his ass off while he says it.  “Come on, it’s fine.  Stop hiding.” 

He reaches across the counter for you.  You jerk away, mewling pathetically, which just makes him laugh again.  He eventually uses both hands to peel apart your death grip.  You still avoid his gaze, staring down at the counter, but he dips his head to chase your eyes. 

“There you are,” he says when your gazes meet.  “Crazy girl!  Ask me again.” 

“I forgot the question,” you say, petulant.

He snorts.  “I didn’t,” he says.  “You wanted to know if I ever made a woman—”

“Yes, I know what I asked!” you say, shaking your head.  You see him smile, a giant grin of immense amusement as you tug at your cheeks in distress.  “I’m sorry I asked.  It’s just that…”

“Something sort of happened?” he supplies when you trail off. 

“Technically,” you say, “something sort of didn’t happen.” 

“Ohhh.”  He returns to looking bashful, rubbing the back of his neck.  “Were you… with… someone?”

“Mhm.”  You both look at the kitchen counter while you speak.  “I had a date.  I planned the whole thing out.  You know me, I like a plan.”  You try to laugh but a flood of humiliation washes over you, the recollection of last night and how everything went so, so wrong.  You close your eyes and sigh.  “Ugh.  It was going well so I brought him back to my place.  Things got heated.  He said he was really good at… doing that… I said I had never done it before and he got excited and said I would like it.  I think I just… thought about it too much.  You know me!  I like a plan!  That wasn’t the plan!  Anyway, we put a towel on the bed which is why it was even more embarrassing when I couldn’t… when he couldn’t make me… ugh.”  You flop forward, pressing your forehead to the cold marble countertop.  “He called me high-strung and left.” 

You lift your head slowly, looking at Jeongin for his reaction.  His expression is all scrunched up like he smells something bad.  Then he gestures as if he is vomiting, making the noisy hurling sounds to match. 

You laugh in spite of yourself, nodding.

“I know, I know, you’re right,” you say.  “He sucked.” 

“High-strung?” Jeongin says, the word tumbling out like a curse.  “He said that?  Pffft—” 

You are glad you came to him.  Your other friends would have been protective and encouraging, which is nice, but Jeongin’s helpless laughter is more reassuring than anything.  That other guy was so pathetic that all Jeongin can do is laugh. 

Even so, you do feel a little sensitive about the whole thing.  You are smiling now but your gaze stays low.  You trace circles on the counter. 

“I know he… he was just embarrassed too.  He was rude to me, but… he wasn’t totally wrong.”

“No,” Jeongin says, shaking his head.  “No, no, no—”

“Yes, yes, yes,” you insist.  You let him take your hands and squeeze, but you talk before he can interrupt.  “Look he didn’t exactly handle it well but I… I am a little… um, overly thoughtful at times.  I’m not good at doing things in the spur of the moment.  It scares me and I think too much and once I start thinking I can’t stop.”  You let go of his hands, giving them one last friendly pat before you neatly fold your hands on the counter.  “Anyway, I asked you what I did because I was hoping you could instruct me so I can practice.  That way next time it happens, I won’t get scared and think so much.”

You smile at him. 

He slowly takes his glasses off, his mouth open. 

“Oh,” he says.  “Okay.  Um.” 

“Soooo… have you?” 

The tips of his ears turn a vibrant red and he puts his reading glasses aside.  He takes a second to rub his eyes with an incredible amount of vigour.  You wait patiently and politely, watching him tug down the sleeves of his hoodie then push them back up.  Those long fingers swipe through his hair once, twice.  Finally, he crosses his arms and nods sharply. 

“Yes,” he says.  “I have.” 

Oh.

The subject of your abstract thought suddenly becomes a tangible reality.  You cannot get the unbidden mental image out of your head: Jeongin, knuckle-deep in the very wet, very soft heat of someone lucky, wringing every last bit of pleasure out of them.  It is unexpectedly easy to imagine yourself in their place, his dark head between your thighs and his steady arm at work. 

You cross your legs.  He notices. 

“Would you mind showing me?” you ask. 

“Showing you?” he repeats, his thick eyebrows high on his face.  “Showing you?” 

“Yes,” you say.  You are so preoccupied with your mental image that it takes a moment to realize your phrasing might be misconstrued.  “Not like that!” 

He jumps in surprise. 

“Oh my god.”  You put your hands over your face again.  “I meant… abstractly.  Draw it.  Or tell me.  I didn’t mean—oh my goodness.”

His ears are still red but Jeongin dissolves into giggles again.   Your mortification works wonders on his dimples. 

“I’m not very good at drawing,” he teases, patting you on the head. 

“Oh my goodness,” is all you manage. 

His laughter is infectious, overpowering your embarrassment until you are giggling with him. 

“I’m sorry,” you say when the laughter finally slows.  You smile, chagrined and apologetic.  “It was a stupid question in the first place.  I’m really embarrassed.” 

“No, don’t be,” he says, waving his hand.  “You can tell me anything.  I was just… surprised.”

“Yeah, so was he,” you say, making both of you laugh again. 

When the laughter subsides a second time, Jeongin sighs.  He puts his discarded glasses back on, blinking his vision into his focus and smiling at you.  After the last few minutes of conversation, that smiles gives you butterflies.  You touch a hand to your stomach as if to still them, but they flutter away. 

“I have an idea,” he says, holding out his hand. 

“Oh no,” you say but take that hand without hesitation.  “Am I about to regret so many things?”

“What?  No.  When have I ever had a bad idea?” he asks while laughing, no doubt in recollection of every combined bad idea your friendship has conjured. 

You can hardly judge him for any bad ideas, though, seeing as you waltzed in here today asking your friend if he had ever made someone squirt.  It sounds very ridiculous in hindsight, but you truly do trust Jeongin so much that the idea seemed reasonable at the time. 

Now you are in his bedroom, hovering by the bedside while he plops down on his bed with a sigh.  He adjusts his glasses and the neck of his hoodie, like this is all protocol and not remotely unusual.  He takes a pillow and lays it gingerly across his lap, then looks up and beckons you forward with the come-hither crook of two fingers.  His smirk is suggestive but playful, just teasing you, but it awakens those butterflies again. 

“Come on,” he says.  “Sit.  I’ll, um, show you.”

“Show me?” you say, eying the pillow in his lap.  “Yang Jeongin, are you… about to defile that pillow?”

“Yes,” he says, nodding solemnly.  “We’re gonna make it squirt.”

“You know when I asked if you had ever done it before, I meant on a human…”

“Wow! I’m helping you with a visual demonstration and you insult me—!”

“Aha, I’m sorry!”  You burst into laughter at the incredulity on his face.   When he pushes the pillow off his lap with a show of dramatics, you wave your hands just as theatrically.  “I mean it, I mean it,” you say, though your laughter contradicts the sincerity of your words.  “Please help me.  I’m sorry, hahaha, I was just teasing, I need your help, please!”

He tries to stand up but you block him, shuffling every time he leans.  He finally grabs your hips to move you but you grab his shoulders.  Your wrestling is a light-hearted tussle, but then he starts tickling you and you stand no chance of survival.  You turn into a flailing, yelping mess, laughing as you spill across the bed with your arms around each other.   He tortures you another second, forcing another apology out of your mouth. 

When it is over, you lay there, panting.  He is leaning over you, his hands on your waist, yours on his shoulders.   Your friend likes to laugh but a very serious look crosses his face.  He looks at you like he is studying you, discovering some detail for the first time even though he has known you for years.  It is like you can feel his stare, a caress across your cheek, across your lips.  You take your bottom lip into your mouth, wetting it.

He takes a slow, deep breath. 

“That man was crazy,” he says.  His voice is lower than before, scratching above a whisper.  “You’re perfect.  He just didn’t care about getting to know you.  And that sucks for him because you—”  His voice breaks, the little squeak making him laugh, a small embarrassed sound.  The tips of his ears are red and he avoids meeting your gaze.  “You’re beautiful,” he says, “inside and out.  Any man would be lucky to be with you.” 

“Jeongin,” you say softly, because what else can you say? 

He meets your gaze.  His mouth is open like he wants to say more but he can only stare at you.  Eventually, he laughs.  He rubs the back of his neck as he sits up straight.  You sit up as well, staring at him while he adjusts his glasses. 

“Right,” he says.  “The, uh, the pillow.  I, um…”

It might have been amusing, watching him poke a pillow suggestively.  But you no longer care about that.  The energy in this room has changed, the whole world melting under the power of his words, changing the very shape of this space.  When you take a breath, all you smell is his cologne, masculine and smoky, all you see is your friend, in his hoodie and glasses with his blushing cheeks, and all you want is him.  Like this.  Right now. 

He reaches for the pillow and you reach for him.  You take his hand and he looks at you, blinking with surprise. 

You turn his hand over.  He really does have nice hands, long fingers, deft and strong.  You measure it against your own.  Then you guide his hand to your lips and kiss the tips of his fingers.  You look at him, making your eyes big, your lashes fluttering. 

“Oh,” he says.  “Oh.”

You laugh.  He cups your face and draws you close and you are both smiling when your lips come together.  Despite his blush, the kiss is ravishing.  You find yourself gasping for a breath, whimpering when he sucks your bottom lip. 

“Lay down please,” he says, speaking against your mouth. 

You nod.  Those butterflies are wild inside you.  You are certain you already look like an unravelled mess, laying on your back and breathing hard. 

He leans over you, catching your hand when you reach for him.  He kisses your palm, your fingers bumping his glasses, making you giggle.  He smiles too, the kiss lingering.  Your whole arm tingles even when he stops.  He guides your hand above your head, curling your fingers around the bars of his headboard. 

“You keep your hands where they are or I'll tie them up,” he says, but laughs at your surprised expression before the words can settle.   “You said yourself, you think too much,” he explains.  “Just lay there.  Don’t move.  Don’t think.  Let me take care of you.”  He puts a leg between yours, pushing forward with his hips to guide yours apart.  He fits there perfectly, pressing his body against yours.  Your breath catches.   “You can trust me,” he says, and somehow that gets you going more than any sexy come-on.

You trust him more than anyone.  You did not hesitate coming to him with an embarrassing story.  You ran to him before anyone else.  You always seek him out first.

You know you are safe in his hands. 

“Do whatever you want with me,” you say.  You never make that sort of offer, but it feels so natural here and now.  With him.  “I’m yours.”

“Whatever I want?” he says, his smile big and dimples deep.   He leans down, kissing your cheek then under your jaw.  When he kisses your throat, it is hot, open-mouthed kiss, all teeth and tongue.  It sends sparks shooting down your whole body, your hips bucking.  He is strong, the weight of him between your legs pinning you to the mattress.  You feel him, firm, hard, his whole body riding the rhythm of yours.  

He has not even undone a single button. 

“Whatever I want,” he repeats.  “That’s a big offer.” 

His hands, those gorgeous hands that had you captivated, slide up your thighs and under your skirt.  He stares down into your face while lifting the material, leaving a trail of goosebumps all the way up your thighs.  You feel yourself clench, a sharp pulse of need in your core.  Your body is thoughtless in its hunger and it feels so good to give into it. 

“Sometimes,” he says, “all I think about this… nothing extreme… just you like this… just us together…”

Every breath of a phrase is punctuated with a kiss, down your chest, your stomach, your thighs.  You are not expecting him to kiss you through your underwear, your hips bucking when he opens his mouth and ravishes you regardless of the barrier.  When you have soaked through the flimsy material, he finally hooks his pinkies into the fabric and tugs it down. 

You do not have time to be shy, just desperate to get them off.  He pushes your thighs back, folding you in half, then goes back to eating your pussy like he has all the time in the world, like there is no where he would rather be.  Your legs shake, your toes curling, body held firmly in his capable hands as he licks you hungrily. 

“Jeongin,” you gasp. 

“You taste like heaven,” is his reply. 

It is so cheesy but it makes you laugh, a happy sound that rumbles in your chest, that couples with pleasure and leaves your whole body singing.  You feel like you could float away. 

You are pliant, soft and malleable in his hands.  He really can do anything with you.  It does not scare you one bit.  You trust him, following his direction when he rolls you onto your side.  You gasp at his hand sliding under your shirt, squeezing your breasts, finding every sensitive nerve as he feels you up. 

“Don’t think,” he says, one arm around your chest and the other sliding down between your legs.  “Just feel, okay?” 

“Mmm,” is your only reply. 

You are so ready for him, wound up from his dirty kisses, taut with tension.  By the time those long fingers are inside you, it feels like completion rather than intrusion.  He fits like he belongs there, curling his fingers against places you never knew were sensitive.  It is like your body gives way, revealing all your secrets to his searching touch. 

“That’s it,” he says when your breathing gets erratic. 

You did not even realize he had found somewhere extra sensitive, not until he is already fucking it slowly.  By the time you realize just how soft you are there, it is too late to brace yourself.  He adds another finger and your body tightens around him.  Your eyes close and you see stars, gasping and rocking and almost crying at the dizzying swirl of sensation. 

“Oh, Jeongin,” you say.  His name is all you say for another minute.  It is the sound on your lips when he moves you, when he turns his hand just slightly, when the new angle sets off a chain reaction of feeling.  You cry out, clenching sporadically around his rapidly moving fingers.  You yank a corner of the bedspread right off the mattress.

Your orgasm seems to go on forever, pulsing and aching and clenching.  Your whole body feels boneless by the time it settles and he slips his fingers free. 

“Oops,” he says, adjusting his skewed glasses with his clean hand.  “Should’ve put a towel down after all.” 

You look down and whimper at the obvious wetness on his bedsheets.   You would apologize but he does not look sorry at all.  In fact, he grins, looking very satisfied with himself. 

You are in a state of utter disarray and he is still fully clothed, having shattered your world with just one hand.  It makes you laugh, giddy. 

Your arms finally drop.  Though it takes a minute, you find a little strength and push yourself up.  He is smiling when you climb into his lap.  He even winks at you when he puts his wet fingers in his mouth. 

You open your mouth too.  You hold his gaze while he puts his fingers in your mouth, his breath catching when you suck them eagerly. 

“I want something more,” you say. 

“Do whatever you want with me,” he echoes your words back to you.  “I’m yours.” 

He is right about the simplest fantasy making for a wonderous reality.  There are no expectations of any over-the-top actions; it is enough it is you and him, together.   Clothing ends up scattered around his room, then you are in his lap and he is holding your waist, and you are holding the bars behind his head as you ride him where he sits against the headboard. 

His glasses get askew but you fix them, laughing against his smile before kissing him again.   It is for nothing because they fall off a second later, when he grabs you and moves, putting you on your back to fuck you at another angle.  He slides a hand between you, rubbing at you, working you up. Your head falls back, your whole body tingling with the approach of another orgasm. 

“Yes, yes,” he says, no doubt feeling you get tight around him.  It is his moaning that sets you off, your legs around his hips, pulling him in close as you come together. 

He kisses all over your face, both of you laughing when he slightly misses your lips.  You find his glasses and put them back on him, meeting his re-focussed gaze and smiling. 

“Was that an okay demonstration?” he teases.  “Like I said, I’m not very good at drawing.” 

“Maybe so,” you tease back, running your fingers through his hair.  “I might need another one.  Just to be sure.” 

“Just to be sure,” he says, nodding very sagely.  “Good idea.  Maybe after that, I’ll take you out to dinner.  Then we better come back here and try again.”

“Just to be sure,” you say. 

“Just to be sure,” he agrees. 

You are already smiling when he kisses you. 

You have never been more sure about anything in your life. 

[thesecondhandwoman]

MORNING STRUGGLES

Caitlyn x f!reader

Synopsis: Every morning since Caitlyn’s left eye was damaged from her fight between Ambessa, she constantly struggles with her eyepatch. This morning, however, you decided to try and help her, wanting to make this day start off a lot better than others.

The morning light poured through the curtains, soft and golden, casting a warm glow over the bedroom. Caitlyn was still nestled beside you, her face buried in the crook of your neck. Her breaths were slow, steady, and peaceful, the faint scent of her lavender soap lingering in the air. You held her gently, savoring the rare moment of tranquility that came with mornings like this.

But just as you began to lose yourself in the quiet rhythm of her breathing, Caitlyn stirred. A soft groan escaped her lips as she shifted onto her back, her body instinctively tensing when she rolled too far onto her left side. You felt her wince and tighten her jaw—a telltale sign that she’d pressed against the injured side of her face.

“Morning,” you murmured softly, leaning down to press a feather-light kiss to her forehead.

Caitlyn blinked awake, her good eye fluttering open to meet yours. “Good morning,” she rasped, her voice still husky with sleep.

You smiled, brushing a stray lock of dark hair away from her face. “Did you sleep okay?”

She hesitated, her hand already lifting toward the side of her face, fingertips brushing over the scar that trailed from her brow to her cheekbone. “I… tried,” she said finally, her voice carefully neutral. “It’s still a bit of a challenge, sleeping on that side. And I woke up a few times.”

You frowned slightly but didn’t press her further. Instead, you leaned down again, peppering her face with gentle kisses—her temple, her cheek, the bridge of her nose. Each kiss was slow, soft, and deliberate, meant to ease the tension in her shoulders.

Caitlyn let out a small, breathy laugh. “What are you doing?”

“Making sure my girlfriend feels loved first thing in the morning,” you teased, giving her a little nudge with your nose.

Her lips curved into a faint smile, but it didn’t last long. As she sat up slightly, she reached for the eyepatch sitting on the nightstand, her movements hesitant.

“You don’t have to rush to put it on,” you said gently, sitting up with her.

“I do,” Caitlyn murmured, her tone firm but tinged with discomfort. She turned the eyepatch over in her hands, frowning as she stared at it. “I hate… leaving it uncovered.”

Your heart twisted as you watched her. Caitlyn had always been so confident, so capable, but this injury had shaken her. You could see the frustration etched into her features as her fingers trembled slightly.

“Let me help,” you offered, scooting closer to her on the bed.

Caitlyn looked at you, her brow furrowing. “You don’t need to—”

“I want to,” you said softly, cutting her off with a reassuring smile.

She hesitated, then gave a small nod, her cheeks faintly pink. You gently took the eyepatch from her hands and climbed into her lap, straddling her thighs. Caitlyn blinked in surprise, her hands instinctively settling on your waist as she looked up at you.

“What are you doing now?” she asked, a faint chuckle in her voice.

“Making this easier,” you said with a grin, holding the eyepatch up like it was some grand prize.

Caitlyn sighed but couldn’t hide the smile tugging at her lips. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah, but you love me,” you quipped, leaning down to kiss the tip of her nose. She huffed out a soft laugh, her fingers tightening slightly on your waist.

Carefully, you adjusted the strap of the eyepatch, leaning closer to secure it around her head. The angle was a bit awkward, and as you tried to fasten it, the strap slipped out of your fingers and snapped lightly against her temple.

“Oh shit, I mean shoot!” you gasped, pulling back in alarm. “Did that hurt?”

Caitlyn shook her head, biting back a laugh. “I think you’re worse at this than I am.”

“Hey, I’m trying my best here,” you said with a mock pout, sticking your tongue out at her.

She chuckled, her good eye crinkling with amusement. “Alright, alright. Carry on, Doctor Eyepatch.”

You grinned, leaning in again to finish the task. This time, you managed to secure it properly, smoothing the strap against her hair. When you pulled back to admire your handiwork, you couldn’t resist brushing a kiss against her scar, just beneath the patch.

“There,” you said softly, cupping her face with both hands. “Perfect.”

Caitlyn’s smile faltered slightly, her fingers brushing over your hands where they rested on her cheeks. “You’re too kind to me,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Not possible,” you replied, your thumbs gently stroking her skin. “Cait, you’re the strongest person I know. This scar? It doesn’t make you any less incredible. It just shows how much you’ve overcome.”

Her gaze dropped, and for a moment, you worried you’d said the wrong thing. But then she leaned forward, resting her forehead against yours. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

You wrapped your arms around her, holding her close as she buried her face against your shoulder. “I’m here for you,” you murmured, pressing a kiss to her hair. “Always.”

Caitlyn tightened her hold on you, her breath warm against your neck. For a while, the two of you just stayed like that, wrapped up in each other.

Eventually, she pulled back just enough to look at you, her lips quirking into a soft smile. “You really are terrible at putting on an eyepatch, though.”

You laughed, poking her side. “Hey! I’m the one who got it on in the end!”

“Debatable,” she teased, her tone light.

You rolled your eyes, but your heart swelled at the sound of her laugh. The shadows of her injury still lingered, but for now, you’d managed to bring a little light to her morning—and that was more than enough.

Note: I know this is extremely short, but I thought that it would be nice to post a fluffy Caitlyn fic. Hope you guys enjoyed it!

[heliosunny]

Fyodor Dostoyevsky being affectionate and touchy for the first time with a woman he adores so much realizing how she makes him feel and how in love he is with her.(lovesick fyodor is a wonderful thought 🙏‼️)

Fyodor Dostoyevsky never kept his assistants for long. They were useful, yes, but disposable—like pawns in a grand chess game. Once their purpose was served, he discarded them without a second thought, their existence erased as if they had never mattered.

But you… You were different.

He should have gotten rid of you already. By now, you should have been just another name wiped from his memory, another forgotten tool in his intricate schemes. And yet, he found himself hesitating. Delaying. Watching you with an unreadable expression as you worked diligently beside him.

You weren’t weak. You weren’t incompetent. But that wasn’t what spared you. No, there was something else.

"You seem distracted, Fyodor" you remarked one evening, your voice laced with curiosity. You didn’t fear him the way others did. A foolish mistake—or perhaps an irresistible charm.

He tilted his head, watching you with a quiet intensity. "Do I?"

"You do." You turned to face him fully, unaware of the way his fingers twitched at his sides, resisting the impulse to reach for you.

He had touched you once before—briefly, fleetingly. A gloved hand brushing against yours when he handed you a file. A whisper of contact that left an imprint he couldn’t shake. It was ridiculous. He was ridiculous. But no matter how much he rationalized, the truth was undeniable. He couldn’t get rid of you.

Not because of logic. Not because of strategy. But because the mere thought of you vanishing from his world filled him with an unfamiliar, unsettling sensation—something he refused to name.

"Perhaps" he murmured, stepping closer, his presence swallowing the space between you, "you are the distraction."

Your breath hitched as he reached up, his fingers finally breaking their restraint to brush against your cheek. He was testing something—testing himself.

Would he recoil? Would he let go?

No.

Instead, he cupped your face fully, his grip firm, almost possessive. His thumb traced your cheekbone, his eyes dark and unreadable. He was always so controlled, so untouchable. But right now, standing before you, his walls were crumbling.

"You've done something unforgivable, Y/N" he whispered, his lips dangerously close to your skin.

You swallowed, the weight of his touch sending a shiver down your spine. "And what would that be?"

His smile was slow, almost amused, but there was something predatory beneath it. "You've made yourself irreplaceable."

-----

You had always known that Fyodor Dostoyevsky was not a kind man.

But until now, you had only seen him in dimly lit rooms, shuffling through papers, playing mind games with unseen enemies, and speaking in soft, almost poetic riddles. You had been his assistant—handling documents, gathering contacts, and making sure every piece of information fell into place.

You had never seen him act on his cruelty firsthand.

Not until tonight.

The warehouse was cold and dimly illuminated by flickering overhead lights. The air smelled of damp concrete and something metallic- blood. You stood frozen at the entrance, your fingers gripping the edge of your coat as you watched him work.

A man knelt before Fyodor, trembling, pleading, his voice raw with desperation.

"You failed me" he murmured, his voice gentle—almost kind. "And I don’t have the patience for disappointment."

The next moment was swift, decisive. A flick of his wrist, a signal to Ivan and Sigma, and the man’s pleas were cut short.

Your stomach twisted as his body crumpled to the ground.

This wasn’t the same Fyodor who murmured cryptic thoughts in the dark. This wasn’t the man who would occasionally pause his reading to glance at you, lost in silent contemplation. No—this was something else.

This was the demon others feared.

Your breath was shaky as you took an unconscious step back, but his voice stopped you.

"Y/N" he called, soft yet firm. He turned toward you, his violet eyes locking onto yours with unsettling ease. "Come here."

Fyodor held you against him, his grip firm but not painful, his fingers tracing lazy patterns along your jaw as he forced you to watch.

Blood pooled at the center of the room, bodies discarded like broken chess pieces. The sounds of gasping breaths and the final, pathetic pleas of his victims echoed in your ears, but Fyodor’s voice was the only thing you could truly hear—low, amused, intoxicating.

“Tell me” he murmured, pressing a gloved finger beneath your chin to tilt your face toward his. “Does this unsettle you?”

Your breath hitched, but you refused to look away. “You already know the answer.”

His lips curled into a slow, knowing smile. "Mm, I do." His fingers trailed from your chin, down the curve of your throat, lingering there as if testing your pulse—measuring just how fast he could make your heart race.

The worst part was that he knew. He knew you hadn’t betrayed him, hadn’t leaked information. You had been nothing but loyal. But that didn’t stop him from playing his games, from toying with you like a cat with a mouse it had no intention of letting go.

“You’re cruel” you whispered, glaring up at him.

Fyodor chuckled, his free hand sliding to your waist as he pulled you flush against him. "Cruel? No, my dear. If I were cruel, I would not be holding you like this.”

His grip tightened, warm even through the fabric of his coat.

"You see, I had to wonder" he continued, his voice laced with amusement. "If you would flinch when you saw this side of me. If you'd run. If you'd beg." His lips brushed against the shell of your ear, his breath sending shivers down your spine. "But you didn’t."

His arms caged you in, his touch both teasing and consuming. “Do you know how much that excites me, Y/N?” His voice dropped to a whisper, a soft hum that sent an unbearable heat curling in your stomach. “Knowing that no matter how dark I am, you are still here.”

You swallowed hard, unable to speak.

"You are fascinating" he mused, his fingers ghosting along the curve of your cheek, thumb pressing lightly against your bottom lip. "Perhaps even dangerous." Then, he laughed—soft, beautiful, sinful. "How delightful."

One evening, as he sat in his chair, a glass of wine in one hand and a chess piece in the other, he finally spoke of his next plan.

"Dazai's plan huh." he mused, rolling the black king between his fingers. "It is time we end our little game, don’t you think?"

Your chest tightened. The war that had been brewing in the shadows was about to reach its boiling point. And this time… you would be right in the middle of it.

-----

The first step of his plan had succeeded. The enemy had fallen, the pieces had shifted, and now, a new alliance had been forged.

The newcomer sat across from Fyodor, their eyes calculating, cold. "Your assistant" they said, their voice sharp. "You should get rid of them. For safety."

Your breath caught, but you forced yourself to remain still. You didn't look at Fyodor. You knew better than to let your expression betray anything.

Silence stretched for a moment too long.

Then, Fyodor let out a slow hum, swirling the tea in his cup before taking a sip. "Yes" he finally said, nodding as if considering it. "Perhaps you are right."

Your stomach dropped.

For the first time, uncertainty crawled under your skin. He wouldn't—would he?

"Good" the new ally said with approval, leaning back. "We’ll handle it."

Fyodor’s lips twitched, barely noticeable. “How thoughtful.”

You felt his hand brush against yours beneath the table, deliberate, slow.

It was a message.

He had no intention of letting them touch you.

Later that night, in the solitude of his chambers, he pulled you into his lap, his arms wrapping around you like chains you could never escape.

"Did I scare you?" he murmured, pressing his lips against the side of your neck, his voice laced with dark amusement.

"You nearly made me think you were serious." you admitted, your voice steady despite the way his touch set you on fire.

His hand trailed up your spine, slow, savoring. "And if I were?"

You turned your head slightly, meeting his gaze. "Then I wouldn’t be here now, would I?"

He chuckled, the sound low and rich. "Exactly."

His lips brushed against your temple, his fingers curling around your waist. "You see, my dear… I don't need to get rid of you." His grip tightened, and he let his lips linger just a moment longer.

"I need you."

[a-pute11as]

Magic Touch

warnings - MNDI 18+ suggestive

words - 1434

“Again?” you huff for the third time, as you lay face down on the floor as play continued around you. You had been purposely tripped up, multiple times. You could hear your teammates around calling for play to stop, however considering this ref had a personal vendetta against you, you know it’s no use so you’re quick to get back up and brush yourself off even when the opposition player had now committed several clear fouls against you. 

You continued to play, actively avoiding the player who had given you a hard time for the past 60 minutes of play. Every minute that ticked on made your anger build. 

A corner was awarded in Barca’s favour allowing Alexia a few moments to catch up with you, she knew you inside and out which meant she knew exactly how you felt in the moment.

“Dios mios, she better not touch you again, estás bien?” She asked, taking hold of your shoulders and inspecting you thoroughly. You nodded in response, not wanting to verbalise how angry the situation had made you, knowing if you started complaining about the obvious mistreatment then you probably wouldn’t stop. 

“I’ll make sure this ref doesn’t step foot onto a pitch ever again” She added, her obvious over-protective side taking over, the anger was evident on her face.

You shook your head, “No Ale, it’s okay, she’s doing her job” You sighed, moving yourself into position for the corner, trying your best to ignore the anger that was coursing through your body. 

Luckily you were positioned well allowing the ball to come off your head, straight to the feet of Pina who was able to angle the ball through the crowd of defenders and right into the back of the net. The goal had given you a chance to breathe, Barca was already 3-0 but being able to earn an assist allowed a moment of relief where you felt as if you had done something right during your time on the pitch. 

You celebrated with your team, everyone bounding into a group hug that nearly knocked both you and Pina off your feet. You were congratulated with a round of pats on the top of your head before Ale found you. 

“Even when you’re being fucked, you’re still a superstar” She whispered, as she held your face with both hands and beamed down towards you. Even if the duration of the game had left you frustrated, angry and straight up pissed off, Ale always found a way to make you feel seen and valued. “Mi superestrella”, she added, placing a kiss on your forehead before running back to her position to restart play. 

Running off the temporary euphoria from your assist you felt as if you were finally able to show what you were capable of, yet it wasn’t long until you were back on the floor.

This time the player had committed a clear foul that was very much in need of a yellow card, you were both floored and she was rolling with her knee in her hands. You laid on the floor with your hands gripping at your head as the pain grew every time you breathed. 

“Are you okay?” Ingrid said, kneeling down at your side. There was a gash across your cheekbone that had begun to trickle with blood. All you could do was nod as the sting overtook your senses. 

Out of the side of your eyes you watched as the ref held up a yellow card and pointed it towards you. Alexia had been truly aggravated, as the captain, her previous calls for the player to be fouled should’ve been paid attention to, yet the ref completely disregarded her words. You heard Alexia arguing with the ref and the player that had floored you, she continuously insisted that the ref had allowed multiple fouls against you and that a yellow card was beyond ridiculous. The argument had preoccupied the ref so much that she didn’t bother to call over the medics waiting on the side.

You steadied yourself enough to get up, much to the protest of your teammates around you. Even though the world was slightly spinning, you needed to stand up for yourself. The attention was quickly turned on you as Alexia’s eyes flashed with worry. The throbbing pain throughout your face didn’t stop you from arguing with the official in front of you. A few curse words later, another yellow card was swung up into your direction, quickly followed by a red card. You had never meant to take it that far, but the anger you felt was quick to release and the cut across your face only fuelled that, you were treated unfairly and you wanted to make that clear. 

Your eyes pricked with tears as you marched yourself off the pitch, clutching your cheek as you went straight down the tunnel, unaware of the scene that was still unfolding behind you. Multiple of your teammates continued arguing with the ref, to the point where Alexia was pulled away by Irene and Patri was also given a yellow card. 

The game continued and as soon as full time hit, Alexia raced down the tunnel to find you, she had no intention of stopping for any reason. You were sat on the bench in the locker room with your head in your hands, tears stained down your face, your breath heavy and fast and a gauze covering the cut. 

“Amor, are you okay?” Alexia asked, kneeling down in-front of you, her hands resting on top of yours. 

“I’m sorry ale, I’m so bad at this and I know you’re so disappointed, I can’t believe I got that red card, it was stupid and reckless and I shouldn’t have started swearing, fuck, I know i’ll be back on the bench again and I’ll get dropped from the England squad. I can’t believe i’ve fucked up this bad” The words split out of your mouth as your rambling started and refused to end, your anxiety was through the roof as your mind was running at a 100 miles per hour and you couldn’t figure out how to slow it down. “I’m so sorry, I am so so fucking sorry ale” You added, tears now spilling out of your eyes again.

“Carino, listen to me, i’m not disappointed in you at all, you did nothing wrong” She tilted your head up so your eyes would meet. “Nothing like that will happen, it’s one or two games that you’ll miss and then you’ll be back like nothing ever happened” She continued to reassure you as your breathing slowed down and the tears stopped flowing from your eyes. 

“I feel so shit” You sighed, your breathing returning to normal. The whole situation had made you numb.

Alexia took a second to think before a slight smirk appeared on her face, “Let me make you feel better”.

“Babe, I don’t know” You sighed. 

“You know I can make you feel so…” She ran her hands up the outside of your thighs painfully slow, “so much better”. 

You contemplated it, you knew ale had a magic touch, and it certainly did make you feel better. 

“Let me show you how good I can make you feel, I can make you forget about all of this” Her hands sat on the tops of your thighs as her fingers traced patterns over your skin. “You can show me just how good you are for me, can’t you?” She questioned, one hand reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. 

You couldn’t help but nod in response, the effect she had on you was massive and that was all you needed to hear to make you weak at the knees and you’d most likely end up on your knees too. 

“Let’s go home?” She suggested, rising to her feet and holding her hand out for you to take. 

“What about your post-match stuff?” You asked, your face scrunched up, hesitant to take her hand in case you were about to take her away from something important that she was actually required to do. 

“Nothing is more important to me right now than making you feel better” She smirked, “And i’m sure they’d all understand”.

You took her hand, rising to your feet and swinging your bag over your arm as she led you out of the stadium and straight to her car. You had a very overprotective alexia on your hands and one that was determined to make you forget about the mess that occurred on the pitch.

[daenysx]

Gentle Sirius x virgin reader who’s never told anyone she hasn’t done it before and tells Sirius right when they’re about to do the deed and Sirius is really nice about it and helps her ease into it? (Also maybe a moment when she’s uncomfortable with the pain when he enters? I usually see fics like this written a bit unrealistically with no initial pain or discomfort and I’m like “how?!😭”)

thank you for requesting, i hope you enjoy ♡ requests are open!!

sirius black x fem!reader, nsfw

insatiable, little trouble

sirius loves the way you pull his hair.

your fingers are so gentle but also cruel, the feeling on his scalp makes his blood rush and he kisses you harder. you suck his bottom lip, his tongue brushes yours, and you pull yourself to lie back on bed.

sirius laughs at your poor attempts to catch your breath. "sorry, lovely. was it too much?"

you shake your head, smiling. "you're not really sorry."

"no, i'm not." he whispers on your cheek. "i love seeing you on my bed."

you clench your legs slightly, hearing sirius's voice so close to your ear does something to you. you press a kiss on his skin, his hair still between your fingers. he kisses your cheek and your jawline, he moves his lips on you until you get ticklish from the insistent kisses on your neck.

sirius is breathless this time. "yeah, maybe we should take a break, i'm not strong enough to continue." he laughs and stays still on you. he tries to make you smile, and you do, but it's a different smile than your usual ones.

"what?" he asks quietly. he brushes one last kiss on your cheekbone before he quirks an eyebrow at you. "tell me what you think, lovely."

your fingers are drawing circles on his neck, and you try to combine the words in your mind before you say them. it's so obvious in your actions, so clear that you want him. he'll make you say it though, you know that. sirius will always expect you to say what you want even though he understands, because he wants that comfort of words between you two.

"i was thinking- maybe we should continue, siri." you say.

"of course we can, baby." he says back. "what would you like to do?"

his voice is so gentle and sweet, you know he's not teasing. this is a first in your relationship and you feel ready enough to live this with him. he makes you feel brave, like you can get anything you want. he rubs your arm to make you focus on your thoughts, he's patient enough for both of you.

"do you want to have sex with me?" you ask, and it sounds ridiculous because he's literally hard against your leg right now.

"this is- no, i'm not kidding, the best question i've ever heard, and my answer is yes." he says, he is smiling. "but i want what you want. if you want, then yes. if you don't, then no."

"no, i just- i want you. i want to be closer, i want us to have this, but-"

"huh? what's the but, sweetheart?"

"i've never had sex before." you say, you know he will never ever tease you. "i guess i don't really know what to expect."

sirius kisses your upper lip. "it's okay not to know, we can discover what you like together."

"but i want to know what you like." you say, your eyes almost close with the contentment of sharing this with him.

"of course you can, we can just- learn it together, yeah? we've got lots of time, we don't have to rush."

"can we start now? it feels good, siri." you say, wrapping your legs around his waist.

"okay." he gets serious. "let's get rid of our clothes, and then i can get my pretty girl ready for me."

you are quick to take your shirt off, he helps you with your pants. he kisses your thighs and knees, throws his own shirt on the floor. he gets up for one moment to take his pants off, and then he's on your body, your naked skins touching each other.

sirius kisses your collarbones, your neck, and the soft curve of your breasts. you lift yourself to help him take your bra off. he seems happy to see you bare and you don't feel shy with him. he takes your nipple in his mouth and sucks it with closed eyes.

your fingers find their way back to his hair. he moves to your other nipple, kissing it first and then taking it in his hot mouth. you arch your back, he uses his other hand to squeeze your boob gently. he stands straight, fingers on your panties.

"can i take this off, lovely girl?" he asks, and you nod, lifting your hips to help him.

he kisses your belly and your panties join the other discarded clothes. his hands part your thighs, he brushes his lips on your cunt and you shiver. you squirm under his hands, and he looks at you. "oh, baby. i just gotta get you nice and wet for me, yeah?" he asks, and you nod. "can you tell me what you like?"

"maybe- maybe with your fingers- i can never reach too far myself but i like it when i'm touched a bit lower than that."

sirius nods, brings his fingers to your face to cup your cheek first. "you wanna get my fingers wet, darling? yeah? open your mouth for me."

you take two of his fingers in your mouth and suck slightly. he doesn't waste any time, but he tries anything to get you more in the mood. he presses a little on your tongue until he sees your throat clenching and then pulls his fingers back.

there's a wetness that started pooling down your cunt since his first kiss. he uses his fingers well, opens you up, and touches you softly. it's his middle finger first, just to make you get ready for the rest. he puts it inside slowly, you try to close your legs but he keeps them open with his other hand. he moves his finger a little, it's obvious on your face that you like what he's doing.

"another finger? i think we're doing a good job so far." he says, his voice slowly turns into his usual teasing.

he adds another finger and moves both of his fingers according to a pace that makes you stretch. the wetness is incredible, sirius touches the places you can never reach by yourself. you arch your back, the overwhelming hope of an orgasm makes you dizzy.

"you're doing so well for me, i knew you'd be my good girl." he says, following every reaction he can get from you.

you blush, smile with your eyes closed. your hips move involuntarily when he starts rubbing your swollen clit with his thumb. you aren't surprised how quickly he found it, it's begging for attention under his fingers.

"you like it so much, don't you, baby? soaking my fingers when i call you my good girl, pulling me inside like that." he says, the pressure on your clit increases. "you're gonna ruin me."

you moan his name loudly when he presses his fingers there, the soft spot you've only managed to find once, that makes your legs shake. "here? okay, baby." he keeps rubbing there with long fingers. "can you tell me when you're close?"

you nod, closing your eyes when it gets impossible to resist. you move your hips against his hand, he's playing with you and he's perfect at doing it. "siri, can i come? so close- if you keep doing that."

sirius listens, bites his lip as he focuses. "you can come, baby. whenever you want."

you nod again, holding onto his free hand, and waiting for the bubble to snap. you can actually feel your muscles relax, your brain closes off, every thought that keeps you awake disappears. you can see his tattooed fingers moving between your legs and that does it.

you think it maybe lasts for a few minutes to come down from your high. you know it's because how much you trust sirius and how comfortable he makes you feel that he managed to make you come. it's not only physical, it's more. you can feel he's rubbing your thigh, he's kissing your knees. he pulls his hand when he thinks you're ready.

when you open your eyes and look at him, he's already watching you. "that was- wow." you manage to say.

sirius is undeniably proud and happy. "i was thinking the same thing, my angel. would you like to do that on my cock?"

you nod, hungry for more. his dirty words can get you anywhere, you like it so much when they come out of his mouth and directed at you. he gets rid of his boxers, his cock twitches against his belly.

"can i touch you?" you ask, finally get back at the world and sitting on bed.

"sure, my love. do you want me to show you how?"

"yes, please."

"fuck, i'm afraid i'm gonna have to eat you up with how sweet you're being. give me your hand."

you smile, give him your hand, and let him bring it to his cock. he curves your fingers to wrap them around himself, he is thicker than you expected, and lovely, you think. he pushes his hips against your hand just like you were doing before and you can feel him throbbing under your fingers.

"you know, siri, i'd hate to be weird." you begin, try to tease him like he does you. "but i just wanna kiss it silly right now."

sirius throws his head back and laughs loudly. "no worries, that was my first thought when i saw your sweet cunt."

your smile never fades with him, you bring your thumb to the tip of his cock and he holds your hand. "okay, pretty, i think that's enough now."

"why?" you ask, a little sad.

"i wanna be inside your cunt when i come, and i won't last if you keep touching me like that."

"mm-hmm, okay." you say. "should i just lay back?"

"you can stay anyway you like. you can be on top if you'll feel more comfy."

"i'm not sure if my legs are strong enough."

sirius kisses the back of your hand, giving you a beautiful smile. "i can be on top of you. hold onto me and remember to talk to me all the time, yeah?"

you lay back, the pillow is soft under your head. "i'll remember."

"good girl." he says, holding your thighs and angling your body. "that's what you are, my love, you are being so good for me."

he moves on his knees and you shiver slightly when the tip of his cock touches your cunt. you are still wet from early, and stretched. "i just need you to relax." he says. "the more you're relaxed the easier we'll do it."

"i'm relaxed." you say. "promise, i'm ready."

he nods, moving a little more to get closer. he uses his fingers to lead himself inside, he pushes in slowly. you move unconsciously, you are wet but it's more than his fingers and it's unusual for you.

he pushes a little more and you make a sound. sirius is cautious, he pulls back immediately. "did i hurt you? are you okay?"

you try for a smile. "no, it's just- a little uncomfortable right now."

"do you want to continue? we can stop."

"no, i don't want to stop, please." you say. "i can take it, siri, i want you."

sirius rubs your thigh. "i think it's normal, feeling uncomfortable at first. we'll go really slow, baby."

"okay." you say. "can you kiss me?"

he leans in a little more, kissing your lips. you hold onto his shoulders and he deepens the kiss, his hand rubbing your thigh to help you relax. he tries to be inside you again, really slow and careful.

you draw little circles on his shoulders with the tip of your fingers, trying to distract yourself from sudden pain. it's not too much, but you think the feeling is still weird. sirius kisses your chin, his hips moving towards yours to let you have all of him.

"are you okay, lovely thing?" he murmurs. "you're doing perfect for me, taking all of it."

he moves himself with a different angle and your legs shake. "sirius." you whimper. "right there."

he hits the same spot again. "yeah? it should be better now, sweetheart."

you try to lift yourself against him, just to feel his cock pressing there again. "it's better." you say. "it's-oh, it's perfect, siri."

he starts moving according to a certain pace now, hitting your sweet spot. you are stretched around him, still wet and getting wetter, the weird feeling is still there but you can definitely ignore it thanks to the pleasure you get.

"gonna take care of you so well." sirius says, kissing your neck. "make you feel so good."

you are a mess under him, and you love it. "yes, yes, please." you whimper his name. "oh, sirius!"

"fuck." he says, moving a little bit faster. "gonna come for me, pretty girl? gonna make a mess for me? i can feel it- you're almost there."

you nod, taking all of him inside you. it's a good feeling, being this close to him. sirius fills your senses so well, you never want to leave him. this is gonna be a new addiction and you can't help but thinking all the new things you can try with him, the thought of giving him the same kind of pleasure he gives you now makes you arch your back.

"i'm- so close, siri." you say, breathless.

"me too, baby." he says, sucking a spot on your collarbone. "now, be a good girl and come around me."

you are shaking under him as he starts rubbing your clit. the orgasm takes you, it's intense and everything you ever wanted with sirius. he holds you, you close your eyes. he kisses your shoulder, your neck. he keeps moving slowly to help you ride out your orgasm and you pull his hair slightly as you come down from your high.

you hold onto his hair a little harder to get his face closer to yours, and you kiss the skin under his ear. "come inside me." you say. "please, i want it."

sirius obeys, and it only takes one last movement for him to lose himself. he puts his head on your chest as he comes, sucking your nipple unconciously. he whispers your name, and he's sure he almost drifts off. it's a strong urge but you keep him with you, you stroke his hair and wrap your arms around him.

after he calms down, sirius lifts himself on bed to look at you properly. you smile at him, he thinks you look gorgeous. "did you like it?" he asks, giving you a smile back.

"did i like it?" you quirk an eyebrow. "i thought it was obvious, siri."

"say it again for me, love." he can beg you.

"i loved it so much." you say, reaching his face to cup his cheek. "i want to do it again."

sirius laughs. "are you gonna be an insatiable, little trouble for me? is that it?"

"you just created a monster."

he kisses your hand. "oh, yeah. my little monster, i want you close to me all the fucking time."

he gets clingier after sex, you realize. he keeps touching you more than usual and checks on your body. "are you hurting anywhere?" he asks.

you shake your head. "no, it was unusual at first but- i really liked it. didn't hurt too much, i'll be fine."

he nods, leans in to give you a kiss.

"can we have shower?" you ask.

"nope, i'm gonna fill the tub for my baby." he replies. "we should make sure you're comfortable and not hurting, i don't wanna rush cleaning you up."

you kiss him thank you. he kisses you on your forehead after that, he knows you'll probably be sore later. still, he's gonna make sure you're fine, he loves taking care of you. you kiss him until he has to leave to fill the tub, and he carries you to the bathroom. the rest of the evening is spent with sirius spoiling you, never letting you leave the blankets on the couch and filling your stomach with hot chocolate.