#and one of the things I miss the most is the sense of determinism

[polysyndetonaddictsupportgroup]

“A part of me still thinks we’ll find our way back around.”

I hope we do ❤️

I left the church a while ago and I don’t think I have any blessings I can actually give but the best one I can think of is that I hope you find a place for your art to go

[risuola]

ENTRY #11 ♡ F. READER X GOJO SATORU // I starve for your touch yet fear to savor it.

contents: arranged marriage!au, nudity, reader discretion is advised — wc. 1690

a/n: there was no way i wouldn't write a fic based on this picture. just no way.

series masterlist

Satoru loves to sleep naked.

The beauty of his innate technique, the blessing that he mastered to no end, has stripped him off one of the most basic human needs — touch. He wasn’t missing it that much, he thought, but there was something in letting go of everything and allowing himself to be wrapped in the silky layers of bedsheets that made his body crave the feeling.

He has always picked expensive garments, the ones with soft fabrics and luxurious feel, despite everyone telling him it’s unreasonable to spend so much on a shirt or a pair of trousers, but to him, it did matter. To him, that was the only thing touching his body when a thin layer of infinity effectively forced everything else back. To Satoru, touch was forbidden, threatening. It was a vulnerability that he, the strongest, couldn’t afford.

But that until he’s met you. Until he’s married you.

You were one of not many people he’s made an exception for. You were able to touch him whenever you wanted because the protective surface of endless matter let you in. Because he himself altered his technique to make you capable of laying your hands on his body.

He longed for your touch. So soft, and delicate, and warm. He craved more of it and yet, despite being shameless and confident, he has not allowed himself to sleep bare even once since the day you and him were bound by the knot of matrimony. It would cross boundaries he wasn’t sure you’d wish to cross; it would make you uncomfortable, awkward maybe — and he liked the way your relationship looked like now. He liked the late evenings you talked quietly, alone and intimate in the warm embrace of sheets and your own house.

For you, he let go of the way he used to sleep before because you were worth the sacrifice, but now, you were gone for few days. You were sent on a mission away from Tokyo and the hours Satoru spent alone in bed, thinking of nothing more but your fingertips on top of his skin, made him desperate — and so, he allowed himself the comfort of soft cotton and silk.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

You were tired. Exhausted even, by the intense fight you had to pull through, by the uncomfortable nights spent in the dingy hotel room, by the humid weather and rains. In moments like this, there was nothing you envied more in the world than your husband’s ability to warp from one place to another, but you got lucky. Incredibly so, because Ijichi offered you a ride home two days earlier than you were supposed to head back and you thanked all gods and devils for that man’s kindness. He was willing to put on some more road just to get you home.

“Thank you so, so much, Ijichi,” you kissed his cheek — a ghost of a peck that made him all red and steamy and you felt giddy for a moment, seeing the tips of his ears turn crimson. Adorable. You liked him, he was dutiful, polite, trustworthy and constantly terrorized by your husband, so you were determined to at least be the Gojo he likes.

“You’re very welcome,” he mumbled and fixed the frames on the bridge of his nose, pushing them up with the tip of his pointer finger. “Have a good rest.”

“You too, Ijichi.”

Then, he was gone and you were stepping into the house with a deep sense of relief washing over you. Home sweet home. If you were to guess, it was most likely somewhere around 4 am, way too early for anyone to be up — especially your husband — so you gave it your all to stay as quiet as possible. The sun was just showing its first rays from way below the horizon line, crawling up with golden hues and breaking the nightly, navy darkness.

On your toes you moved across the house. It seemed as if Gojo was spending his time alone quite ordinarily — you saw a modest stack of empty takeout boxes, much less humble pile of candy wrappers and his uniform jacket thrown over the couch backrest, along with few other little items that you struggled to differentiate in the nocturnal haze.

You put down your bag, hung up your coat and pushed off the shoes. Ghosting your way towards the bathroom, you were desperate to wash away the combat residuals. You lathered up the shower gel in a rush, desperate to rest and sleep in the comfort of your own bed and then, wrapped in the towel, you tippy-toed to the bedroom, but—

“Came back earlier?”

—you truly didn’t expect to be met with a sight like this. Your husband was awake, just barely, most likely awaken by the water running in the bathroom. His eyes were closed, hidden underneath his forearm and shielded from the lights that were slowly creeping inside, between the dark curtains and onto his face. His body seemed relaxed between the sheets. The softest, gentlest lines of golden glimmer that painted its patterns over his uncovered chest and leg, his hip and one of the muscular arms. The duvet was covering less than half of him, hiding a part of his stomach, the other leg and—

“You’re staring.”

Satoru didn’t even have to look at you to know that your gaze was lingering on his frame. On his very, very naked frame, just barely concealed by the comforter.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, feeling the heat creeping up your cheeks and reaching the tips of your ears and you thanked the darkness for hiding it away. You walked around the bed, hoping to find your pajama where you left it and trying to force your head out of the gutter. You heard your husband letting out a deep exhale and then, a soft hum. His voice was as melodic as always, though you could tell how much sleepiness was laced into it.

Satoru should’ve notice you when you entered the area of your house, but he didn’t. Tired by his own job, by the classes and all of the meetings, he allowed himself to lower his guard and when he realized you’re home, he contemplated for a moment getting up and dressed, but he just didn’t want to.

“You’re exhausted, screw pajamas, just come here,” he said before he managed to think twice about it. It was a daring offer, inappropriate even and he opened his mouth to apologize for it, but then, you rendered him speechless.

Your weight felt good on top of him. You lay your body over his own with feathery gentleness and carefully maneuvered your way to rest on his chest completely. The touch of your skin flush to his own made his brain to short circuit, it felt divine, too good to be true and just so very right, he couldn’t say a word.

“Is that alright?” You asked quietly, pressing your ear right above his heart and letting out a breath that you held for a little too long. Your face felt hot, you were flushed and flustered but also oddly at ease with the current position and you wondered for a moment if it was the tiredness that made you so bold.

“More than that,” he replied, pulling the covers to hide you beneath them. He allowed one of his arms to snake around your waist and his lips to kiss the top of your head. “Rest. Sleep well, wifey.”

“Good night.”

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

10:19 AM

Satoru thought he was dreaming, but the weight on top of him felt too real. The soft scent of citrusy shower gel that lingered on your skin filled in his lungs each time he took a breath in and there was a tickle, he realized — every time his chest raised, a strand of your hair seemed to be moving against his jawline. You were not a dream.

He opened his eyes, blinking few times, adjusting them to the bright light that forced its way into the bedroom and then, he looked at you. You were still very deep asleep, he could tell based off the long inhales you were taking, slow and relaxed, fanning against his peck rhythmically. Your body was mostly on top of him, you were on his chest, your leg was between his and only your hips were resting on the bed. He still had his arm around you, as if making sure you were as close as possible.

It felt incredible. Intimate. It was everything he could have wished for. A touch, skin to skin, so intense it almost took his breath away. He felt nauseous at the thought, realizing that it’s the first time in his life, he’s that close to someone. So impossibly close that just a little bit more and you’d become a part of him. His heartbeat quickened.

It was so right. So awfully correct and at the same time, so very threatening. He felt helpless. Vulnerable. He was at your mercy, he was robbed of everything what made him the strongest, because at this very moment, he was bare. Uncovered before you, wrapped in an embrace that felt loving, that felt soothing, addicting, but if you only wished to hurt him, you’d—

You moved, shifting your weight a little bit, adjusting the position and the way your hand run down his side made him shiver. A soft sound escaped your throat when you let out a deeper exhale. He felt your fingers squeezing the flesh above his hip and then, you relaxed again.

“Your heart is beating so fast,” you whispered, not bothering to open your eyes, and Satoru held his breath. “Relax…”

And he chuckled. His chest vibrated below your ear and the adorable sound of displeasure you let out made him lose all of the tension. He turned, twisting his body inside your embrace to face you fully and he squeezed you with both of his arms, pulling you close. So impossibly close, and you whimpered, suddenly enclosed in a tight hold of your husband’s limbs. That was it for your sleep.

You could get used to it.

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[sugugasm]

BET | love and deepspace

⟡ tags : underground boxer! sylus + reader — sylus isn’t afraid of going all in when it comes to you.

ミ★ content warning : fem! reader uses she/her prns, mentions of blood & injuries, mentions of female anatomy as well as male anatomy, oral fem! receive, gentle to rough sex, pet names like bby, dove, kitten, honey, 5.0K WORD COUNT

you step into the dimly lit underground boxing gym, the air thick with the scent of sweat, cigarette smoke, and leather. it’s a seedy place, hidden in the heart of the city’s most notorious neighborhood, where the law doesn’t dare to tread. the crowd tonight is a mix of rough characters - bikers with gang patches on their jackets, local gangsters with glares and expensive watches, shady high-rollers in suits looking to place big bets on the illegal fights.

as you navigate through the throng of people, you spot him in the corner, preparing for his match. sylus - the man who happened to be your ex-boyfriend . . oh, and only the most feared bare-knuckled boxer in the underground circuit. he was a sight to behold, all rippling muscles and newfound tattoos, with messy silver hair that gleamed under the fluorescent lights. you watch as he methodically wraps his hands, his intense red eyes focused on the task.

your history with sylus is complicated, to say the least. you met him two years ago at a biker rally, drawn to his bad-boy charm and undeniable charisma. he swept you off your feet with his daredevil antics on his custom harley and his smooth talking ways. but sylus’s world was always filled with danger, violence, and illegal activities. as the leader of onychinus, the city’s most notorious motorcycle club, he ran an empire built on illicit evol weapons, protocore deals, and underground fighting.

at first, the thrill of it all was intoxicating - the adrenaline rush of riding on the back of his bike, the wild parties at the onychinus clubhouse, watching him dominate in the ring. but as time went on, you grew tired of the constant chaos and the fear that one day, sylus’s risky lifestyle would catch up to him. you wanted stability, a future - things that sylus scoffed at. ‘i live in the moment, babe,’ he would say with that infuriating smirk. ‘and right now, all i want is you.’

but it wasn’t enough. six months ago, after a particularly brutal fight that left sylus battered and bleeding, you reached your breaking point. you told him you couldn’t watch him destroy himself anymore, that you needed more than he could give you. sylus, stubborn and proud as ever, refused to change. ‘this is who i am,’ he growled. ‘so take it or leave it.’ so you left, walking away from the man you loved, determined to build a life free from the violence and uncertainty.

now, seeing him again after all this time, you feel a mix of emotions stirring within you. anger, hurt, frustration . . . but also a undeniable pull of attraction and longing. as if sensing your presence, sylus glances up, his red eyes locking with yours. a slow, confident smirk spreads across his handsome face as he saunters over to you, the crowd parting before him.

“well, well. look who it is,” he drawls, looking you up and down appreciatively. “didn’t expect to see you here tonight, [★]. come to watch me dominate the ring as usual?”

you scoff and cross your arms, determined not to let him see how much his presence affects you. “i’m not here for you, sylus. i’m just here to collect on some bets.”

he chuckles, a deep, rich sound that sends shivers down your spine. “sure you are, sweetheart. keep telling yourself that.”

sylus takes a step closer, invading your personal space. he smells like musk and sandalwood, a scent that brings back memories of stolen moments and passionate nights. “i miss you, you know,” he murmurs, his voice low and intimate. “everything’s been so boring without you around to keep me on my toes.”

you try to stay strong, but you can feel your resolve wavering. damn him and his charm. “i’m not here to rehash the past, sylus. what do you want?”

his eyes glint with a challenge. “make a bet with me - when i win the championship belt tonight, you give me another shot. a chance to prove that we’re meant to be together.”

you laugh in disbelief. “you can’t be serious. we’re done, sy. i’m not falling for your games again.”

“who says it’s a game?” he counters, his expression turning serious. “i know i messed up, [★]. i wasn’t ready before, but i am now. i want you back in my life. i need you.”

you hesitate, torn between your lingering feelings and your better judgment. sylus is a force of nature, wild and untamed. being with him is like dancing on the edge of a razor - thrilling but dangerous. can you really risk your heart again?

“and what do i get if you lose?” you ask, buying yourself time to think.

sylus flashes you a cocky grin. “you know i never lose, kitten. but if by some miracle i do . . i’ll leave you alone. for good. unless you decide you can’t resist me and come crawling back.”

you snort at his arrogance, even as a part of you wonders if he might be right. sylus has always had a hold on you, an undeniable magnetism that draws you in against your will, “fine,” you hear yourself saying, almost as if from a distance. “you’ve got a deal.”

his grin widens, triumphant. “get ready to come back to where you belong, [★] - with me.”

the crowd starts to get louder, chanting and cheering as the lights flicker and dim. it’s almost time for the main event - sylus’s championship fight. he starts to walk towards the ring, but pauses and turns back to face you.

“watch closely now, honey,” he says with a wink. “i’m about to show you what you’ve been missing.”

with that, he strides away, his movements graceful and predatory. you watch him go, your heart pounding in your chest.

what had you gotten yourself into?

as the crowd’s chanting reaches a fevered pitch, sylus steps into the ring, the picture of coiled power and raw aggression. his opponent, a hulking brute known as ‘the mauler’, glares at him from across the mat, pounding his meaty fists together in a show of intimidation. but sylus just smirks, unfazed. he’s taken down bigger, badder fighters than this guy.

the referee calls them to the center, going over the rules - not that there are many in the underground circuit. “no biting, no eye gouging, fight ends with a knockout or tapout. keep it clean . . ish. touch gloves and come out swinging!”

sylus bumps his taped fists against the mauler’s, staring him down with those intense red eyes. then they’re backing away, the air crackling with tension as the crowd falls silent in anticipation.

the bell sounds and the mauler charges forward with a roar, swinging wildly. but sylus is too quick, too skilled. he slips and weaves, dodging the heavy blows, letting his opponent overextend himself. sylus fires off a rapid jab - cross combo, snapping the mauler’s head back and drawing first blood from his nose.

the big man snarls and redoubles his efforts, trying to use his size to his advantage, to trap sylus against the ropes and pummel him. but sylus is like smoke, always just out of reach. he targets the mauler’s weak spots with surgical precision - a knife-hand to the solar plexus to crush his wind, a heel kick to the floating rib, an elbow smash to the jaw.

each blow lands with devastating impact, chipping away at the mauler’s formidable stamina and sending the crowd into a frenzy. they chant sylus’s name like a war cry, thrilling at the sight of the chiseled, tattooed demigod of the ring in his element.

you watch in breathless awe, pulse racing, body heating. damn him. he’s magnificent like this - a perfect fighting machine, all fluid grace and controlled violence. it’s enough to make you forget why you walked away, to let yourself imagine those powerful hands on your body once more . .

a pained grunt snaps you back to the moment as the mauler finally lands a solid hit, a haymaker to sylus’s ribs that sends him staggering. your heart leaps into your throat. but sylus just shakes it off with a feral grin, spitting blood and bouncing on his toes as he beckons for more.

they trade blows in a brutal, lightning-fast exchange, neither giving quarter. the mauler is flagging but still dangerous, pure grit keeping him on his feet. sylus bleeds from a cut over his eye but barely seems to feel it, an unholy light in his gaze as he scents victory.

he presses his advantage with a dizzying flurry of strikes, driving the mauler back . . back . . until he’s pinned against the turnbuckle. sylus hammers his torso without mercy - left hook to the liver, right uppercut to the chin, again, again. the mauler’s knees buckle and sylus steps back, letting him crumple to the canvas.

the crowd erupts as the ref counts it out. at “ten,” sylus throws his hands up in triumph, basking in the adulation. his eyes find yours across the room and the heat in them makes your breath stop. in three long strides he’s out of the ring and hauling you into his arms, crushing his mouth to yours in a searing kiss.

for a moment, you forget where you are. forget the mob of rowdy spectators whistling and catcalling. forget every reason you swore you'd never let him back into your heart. all you know is the demanding press of his lips, the steel - cable strength of his blood-slicked body, the intoxicating rush of his victory and your surrender . . .

“looks like i won our bet, babe,” he says smugly, smirking down at you. “hope you’re ready to pay up.”

you scowl, hating how easily he affected you. “one. drink. that was the deal.”

sylus touches his tongue to the seam of his split lip, gaze roving hungrily over you. “oh, i’m just getting started.”

he drags you through the throng of well-wishers and sycophants, his grip on your hand unbreakable. outside, the night air is cool against your overheated skin, charged with tension and the distant growl of engines.

sylus leads you to his pride and joy - that sleek demon of a harley crouched by the curb. the way he straddles the throbbing machine is blatantly sexual, all hard muscles and black leather. he jerks his head at the space behind him.

“c’mon - you know the drill, hop on.”

your hesitation lasts a mere heartbeat before you throw a leg over the bike and wrap your arms around his waist, molding yourself to his back. the rumble of the engine between your thighs and the furnace heat of his body shreds the last of your resistance.

your hesitation lasts a mere heartbeat before you throw a leg over the bike and wrap your arms around his waist, molding yourself to his back. the rumble of the engine between your thighs and the furnace heat of his body shreds the last of your resistance.

then, sylus kicks off and you’re flying, the city lights a neon blur as he opens the throttle. your pulse pounds in time with the roar of the pipes, excitement and desire a heady drug in your veins. by the time he screeches to a stop outside a dingy saloon on the outskirts of town, you’re dizzy with need.

inside, the bar is a den of sin and swagger, all scuffed leather and polished chrome and clinking bottles. eyes follow sylus with a mix of fear and reverence as he stalks to a booth in the back, one possessive hand at the small of your back.

he orders a whiskey, neat, and your favorite poison, not bothering to ask what you want. at your raised eyebrow, he shrugs.

“i remember.”

two words. but the weight of history and unspoken emotion behind them squeezes your heart. your fingers tremble slightly as you raise your glass in a mock toast.

“to your victory. and my reckless wager.”

sylus’ gaze is molten as he clinks his tumbler against yours, gaze holding you captive over the rim as he tosses back the smooth liquid. the slight burn of the alcohol is nothing compared to the smolder of his stare.

“what are we doing, sy?” you ask into the charged quiet, liquid courage loosening your tongue. “why now, after all this time?”

a muscle ticks in his jaw. he looks down, spinning his empty glass, broad shoulders rigid with tension.

“i fucked up.”

his voice is low, raw with a vulnerability you've never heard from him. your breath snags.

“i thought i needed the rush, the rep, the respect. and yeah, maybe i did, for a while. but none of it meant shit without you.” slowly, giving you every chance to pull away, he reaches for your hand — lacing his scarred, tape-wrapped fingers with yours, “i was a coward. i pushed you away because i was scared shitless of how bad i wanted you - needed you. needed your strength, your goodness. you made me want to be better. and it truly fucking terrified me.”

his grip tightens, almost painfully. anchoring you to him.

“losing you . . it broke me, [★]. made me realize that the only thing i’m actually afraid of is living without you.”

sylus swallows hard, his throat working. when he looks up at you, his eyes are blazing with fierce intent.

“i know i don’t deserve another shot. i know i need to earn back your trust. but i swear to whoever may hold my fate, if you give me a chance, i will spend every waking day proving that you’re my whole damn world.”

your heart is a wild bird in your chest, frantic and yearning. you search his face, finding only sincerity and aching tenderness beneath the bruises and blood.

“i never stopped loving you,” you confess, voice breaking. “no matter how hard i tried to hate you . . i couldn’t let you go.”

sylus makes a rough sound, halfway between a growl and a groan. then he’s kissing you, deep and urgent and saying everything he can't put into words. you fall into him, all hunger and desperation, the levee finally breaking on the flood of your need.

“take me home,” you gasp into his mouth, fingers curling in the sweat-damp silk of his hair.

“i thought you’d never ask, dove.”

the anticipation is a living thing as sylus speeds through the lamp-lit streets, the throaty growl of his harley between your thighs a heady reminder of the man commanding the machine. by the time he pulls into the cavernous garage beneath his loft, your body is humming, every nerve ending alight with need.

sylus is on you the moment you dismount, crowding you back against the rough brick wall, his large frame enveloping yours. his kiss is searing, possession and passion, strong hands gripping your hips as he grinds into you. you moan into his mouth, fingers scrabbling for purchase on his leather-clad shoulders, craving more.

“been dreaming about this,” he rasps against your lips, his voice like gravel and whiskey, igniting heat in your veins. “having you back in my arms, in my bed. fuck, [★], need you so bad it's like a sickness.”

“then take me,” you breathe, emboldened by the blatant hunger shining in those crimson eyes. “i’m here, sylus. i’m yours.”

something animalistic unfurls behind his gaze, a primal sort of satisfaction that has you clenching with want. in a burst of movement, he hoists you up, your legs instinctively wrapping around his lean hips as he strides purposefully to the industrial elevator that will carry you to his domain.

the short ride up is a haze of frantic kisses and roving hands, two years’ worth of pent-up longing seeking outlet. by the time sylus kicks open the door to his loft, you’re both panting, clothes askew and lips kiss-bruised. he carries you straight to the bedroom, a cavern of shadows and silver moonlight spilling across rumpled black silk sheets. when he lays you down in the center of that decadent expanse, the reverence in his touch steals your breath. his battle-scarred fingers shake slightly as they skim over your curves, learning you anew.

“so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, crimson gaze tracking hungrily over your body like he's committing every detail to memory. “can’t believe i almost lost this . . lost you . .”

“never,” you whisper fiercely, reaching up to cup his angular jaw. “i’m here, sylus. right where i belong. and i’m not going anywhere.”

he turns his head to press a fervent kiss to your palm, the heat of his breath making you shiver as his lips graze your fingers — and ever so gently, he bites. then slowly, deliberately, he divests you of your clothes, unwrapping you like a gift. you echo his actions, baring him inch by glorious inch to your avid gaze.

sylus’s body is a work of art, all chiseled muscle and inked skin, a roadmap of violence and survival. you take your time tracing the ridges and hollows, the scars and scrolling tattoos, familiarizing yourself with this new landscape of him. he shudders beneath your questing touch, eyes fluttering shut, a low rumble building in his chest.

“[★],” he grits out, and fuck, how you’ve missed the way he says your name, guttural and raw, like a prayer and a plea. “please, baby . . need to taste you.”

“yes,” you hiss, already aching, empty. “please, sylus.”

granted, he descends on you like a man starved, that talented mouth charting a path of fire over your sensitized flesh. he maps every curve and valley with lips and teeth and tongue, each nip and suck and lap stoking the inferno building in your core.

when he finally settles between your trembling thighs, the first bold stroke of his tongue punches the air from your lungs, your spine arching involuntarily. he groans in appreciation, strong hands splaying your thighs wider, opening you fully to his voracious appetite.

“fuck, i missed this,” he rasps against your slick folds, the vibration of his words making you keen. “missed the way you taste, the sounds you make when i devour this sweet cunt. could feast on you for hours, little one . .”

you whimper breathlessly, one hand fisting in the sheets, the other tangling in his silver hair, holding him to you. sylus takes the encouragement for what it is, sealing his mouth over your aching flesh and suckling greedily. stars erupt in your eyes, pleasure rioting through your veins as he works you ruthlessly, adding clever fingers to his oral assault. he curls them just right, rubbing that secret spot that has you seeing god, all while his wicked tongue paints obscene promises on your clit.

“s-sy, fuck!” you wail, back bowing, thighs clamping around his ears as he drives you higher and higher. “oh god, yes, just like that! don’t stop, please, i’m gonna’ cum . . fuck, baby-”

he doubles his efforts, a man possessed, growling his own pleasure into your core. “that’s it, my love,” he urges gutturally between long, lewd licks. “go ahead and give it to me, wanna’ feel you drench my face, want you gushing on my tongue . .”

his filthy encouragement hurls you over the edge with a strangled scream, release slamming into you like a freight train. you shatter spectacularly, pulsing and clenching around his thrusting fingers, slick gushing into his eager mouth as he works you through the most intense orgasm of your life.

when you finally drift back down to earth, aftershocks still rippling through you, sylus is grinning up at you wolfishly from between your thighs, his beard glistening obscenely with your essence. “fucking incredible,” he rumbles, pressing a soft kiss to your still-twitching center. “could watch you fall apart on my tongue forever and never get tired of it.”

“get up here,” you demand breathlessly, tugging him to you. he comes willingly, settling his considerable bulk over you, caging you beneath miles of warm, hard muscle.

you claim his mouth in a filthy kiss, moaning at the taste of yourself on his lips and tongue. he responds with matching hunger, hips rocking into the cradle of your thighs, the thick ridge of his erection a brand against your sensitive flesh.

“please,” you whimper into his mouth, nipping at his bottom lip. “need you inside me, sylus. been too long, i want it . .”

“fuck,” he snarls, the words seeming to snap his restraint. “far too long, honey. be patient, you know i will.” slowly, giving you time to adjust, he notches himself at your entrance and pushes forward, gasping harshly at the tight, wet heat of you enveloping him. “goddamn,” he grits out through clenched teeth, forehead pressed to yours. “silly me. i almost forgot how fucking perfect you feel. like coming home.”

“yes,” you moan, reveling in the familiar stretch and burn of his thick length entering your body. “missed this so much . . missed you . . love you, sylus, so fucking much.”

“i love you too,” he rasps, pulling nearly all the way out before surging back in, starting a deep, rolling rhythm that has your toes curling. “i never stopped, never will. you’re only for me, [★]. only me.”

you lose yourselves to the timeless dance, bodies moving in perfect synchronicity, rediscovering every perfect angle and hidden sweet spot. sylus takes his time, building you back up with long, measured strokes, whispering words of worship into your skin, branding you with his love.

“so good,” he groans, hitching your leg higher on his hip, sinking impossibly deeper. “could stay buried in this tight little pussy forever. never wanna leave.”

“don’t.” you gasp, fingers clawing at his flexing back, desperate for more. “stay — harder, sylus, fuck me harder. wanna’ be able to feel it tomorrow.”

with a low, approving growl, sylus complies, snapping his hips faster, driving into your yielding body with the piston precision of the machine he rides. the wet, obscene slap of flesh fills the room, punctuated by your escalating moans and cries.

“i’m not gonna last,” he warns, rhythm faltering. “too good, too fucking good. tell me you’re close, baby . .”

“s-so close,” you pant, the coil in your belly wound to the breaking point. “just a little more - fuck, right there, sy . . o-oh my —”

sylus hammers into you, grunting with the effort, sweat sheening his skin. he wedges a hand between your straining bodies, finding your swollen clit and rubbing tight circles. “cum on my cock,” he demands, voice strained. “let me feel that pussy grip me, milk me . .” his words are your undoing, hurling you into oblivion with a keening wail. your inner muscles seize around him, rippling and fluttering, trying to pull him deeper as you drench his driving length in release.

“fuck, yes!” sylus roars, pistoning wildly, chasing his own end. “gonna’ - ah, shit, kitty, i’m cumming!” his climax overtakes him with a force that borders on violence, his cock jerking and pulsing as he spills himself deep in your still-spasming core, painting your inner walls with thick ropes of his seed. you mewl weakly in blissed-out overstimulation, aftershocks rolling through you as he fills you to the brim.

finally spent, sylus collapses onto you, taking care not to crush you with his bulk. you cuddle as sweat and other fluids cool on your skin, hearts gradually slowing in tandem. he’s still stuffed deep inside you and you clench involuntarily around his now-softening length, loving the way he groans, overused nerves sparking. “keep that up and we’ll be going again real soon,” he warns playfully, nuzzling into your neck.

you huff a laugh, carding your fingers through his damp hair. “yeah, yeah,” you tease. “we’ve got time now, sylus. all the time in the world. i’m not going anywhere.”

he raises his head to look at you, crimson eyes soft and full of wonder. “damn right you’re not,” he rumbles, pressing a tender kiss to your lips. “i’m never letting you out of my sight again. you’re stuck with me now, sweetheart.”

“eh, could be worse,” you quip, grinning up at him. “i think i can handle being stuck with you. it’s only forever, after all.”

“forever,” sylus echoes solemnly, like an oath. “i like the sound of that. you and me. binded as one.”

“ . . . and loving each other stupid every chance we get,” you finish impishly, wiggling your eyebrows.

he barks a laugh, the joyful, uninhibited sound making your heart soar. “oh, that is definitely part of the plan,” he assures you, a wicked gleam in his eye. “gotta’ make up for lost time, don’t we?”

“mmhm, that we do,” you agree readily, warmth suffusing you. “better get started on that. forever’s not getting any longer.”

“as my lady commands,” sylus murmurs, capturing your mouth again as he begins to stir inside you once more.

and as passion ignites anew, the promise of countless tomorrows enfolding you like a benediction, you know this is just the beginning of the ups and downs.

because this love, tempered by loss and longing, by time and truth . . it’s unbreakable. a bond that even the harshest trials will only serve to strengthen.

and with sylus by your side, his heart in your keeping as surely as yours rests in his scarred and steady hands . .

. . you know you can weather any storm.

forever, and then some.

★ SUGUGASM 2024 | please don’t copy, translate or share my work on other platforms without my consent. tagging @ramonathinks <3

[5ummit]

AO3 Ship Stats: Year In Bad Data

You may have seen this AO3 Year In Review.

It hasn’t crossed my tumblr dash but it sure is circulating on twitter with 3.5M views, 10K likes, 17K retweets and counting. Normally this would be great! I love data and charts and comparisons!

Except this data is GARBAGE and belongs in the TRASH.

I first noticed something fishy when I realized that Steve/Bucky – the 5th largest ship on AO3 by total fic count – wasn’t on this Top 100 list anywhere. I know Marvel’s popularity has fallen in recent years, but not that much. Especially considering some of the other ships that made it on the list. You mean to tell me a femslash HP ship (Mary MacDonald/Lily Potter) in which one half of the pairing was so minor I had to look up her name because she was only mentioned once in a single flashback scene beat fandom juggernaut Stucky? I call bullshit.

Now obviously jumping to conclusions based on gut instinct alone is horrible practice... but it is a good place to start. So let’s look at the actual numbers and discover why this entire dataset sits on a throne of lies.

Here are the results of filtering the Steve/Bucky tag for all works created between Jan 1, 2023 and Dec 31, 2023:

Not only would that place Steve/Bucky at #23 on this list, if the other counts are correct (hint: they're not), it’s also well above the 1520-new-work cutoff of the #100 spot. So how the fuck is it not on the list? Let’s check out the author’s FAQ to see if there’s some important factor we’re missing.

The first thing you’ll probably notice in the FAQ is that the data is being scraped from publicly available works. That means anything privated and only accessible to logged-in users isn’t counted. This is Sin #1. Already the data is inaccurate because we’re not actually counting all of the published fics, but the bots needed to do data collection on this scale can't easily scrape privated fics so I kinda get it. We’ll roll with this for now and see if it at least makes the numbers make more sense:

Nope. Logging out only reduced the total by a couple hundred. Even if one were to choose the most restrictive possible definition of "new works" and filter out all crossovers and incomplete fics, Steve/Bucky would still have a yearly total of 2,305. Yet the list claims their total is somewhere below 1,500? What the fuck is going on here?

Let’s look at another ship for comparison. This time one that’s very recent and popular enough to make it on the list so we have an actual reference value for comparison: Nick/Charlie (Heartstopper). According to the list, this ship sits at #34 this year with a total of 2630 new works. But what’s AO3 say?

Off by a hundred or so but the values are much closer at least!

If we dig further into the FAQ though we discover Sin #2 (and the most egregious): the counting method. The yearly fic counts are NOT determined by filtering for a certain time period, they’re determined by simply taking a snapshot of the total number of fics in a ship tag at the end of the year and subtracting the previous end-of-year total. For example, if you check a ship tag on Jan 1, 2023 and it has 10,000 fics and check it again on Jan 1, 2024 and it now has 12,000 fics, the difference (2,000) would be the number of "new works" on this chart.

At first glance this subtraction method might seem like a perfectly valid way to count fics, and it’s certainly the easiest way, but it can and did have major consequences to the point of making the entire dataset functionally meaningless. Why? If any older works are deleted or privated, every single one of those will be subtracted from the current year fic count. And to make the problem even worse, beginning at the end of last year there was a big scare about AI scraping fics from AO3, which caused hundreds, if not thousands, of users to lock down their fics or delete them.

The magnitude of this fuck up may not be immediately obvious so let’s look at an example to see how this works in practice.

Say we have two ships. Ship A is more than a decade old with a large fanbase. Ship B is only a couple years old but gaining traction. On Jan 1, 2023, Ship A had a catalog of 50,000 fics and ship B had 5,000. Both ships have 3,000 new works published in 2023. However, 4% of the older works in each fandom were either privated or deleted during that same time (this percentage is was just chosen to make the math easy but it’s close to reality).

Ship A: 50,000 x 4% = 2,000 removed works Ship B: 5,000 x 4% = 200 removed works

Ship A: 3,000 - 2,000 = 1,000 "new" works Ship B: 3,000 - 200 = 2,800 "new" works

This gives Ship A a net gain of 1,000 and Ship B a net gain of 2,800 despite both fandoms producing the exact same number of new works that year. And neither one of these reported counts are the actual new works count (3,000). THIS explains the drastic difference in ranking between a ship like Steve/Bucky and Nick/Charlie.

How is this a useful measure of anything? You can't draw any conclusions about the current size and popularity of a fandom based on this data.

With this system, not only is the reported "new works" count incorrect, the older, larger fandom will always be punished and it’s count disproportionately reduced simply for the sin of being an older, larger fandom. This example doesn’t even take into account that people are going to be way more likely to delete an old fic they're no longer proud of in a fandom they no longer care about than a fic that was just written, so the deletion percentage for the older fandom should theoretically be even larger in comparison.

And if that wasn't bad enough, the author of this "study" KNEW the data was tainted and chose to present it as meaningful anyway. You will only find this if you click through to the FAQ and read about the author’s methodology, something 99.99% of people will NOT do (and even those who do may not understand the true significance of this problem):

The author may try to argue their post states that the tags "which had the greatest gain in total public fanworks” are shown on the chart, which makes it not a lie, but a error on the viewer’s part in not interpreting their data correctly. This is bullshit. Their chart CLEARLY titles the fic count column “New Works” which it explicitly is NOT, by their own admission! It should be titled “Net Gain in Works” or something similar.

Even if it were correctly titled though, the general public would not understand the difference, would interpret the numbers as new works anyway (because net gain is functionally meaningless as we've just discovered), and would base conclusions on their incorrect assumptions. There’s no getting around that… other than doing the counts correctly in the first place. This would be a much larger task but I strongly believe you shouldn’t take on a project like this if you can’t do it right.

To sum up, just because someone put a lot of work into gathering data and making a nice color-coded chart, doesn’t mean the data is GOOD or VALUABLE.

[sofiatarot]

Pick a card: The first impression your future spouse will have of you

(written as individual stories from their perspective because why not???)

TIP JAR - FREE READINGS - PAID READINGS

1/2

3/4

Group 1:

The moment I saw you, it felt like the world shifted (the tower). You had this electrifying presence, someone who doesn’t go unnoticed. There was something striking about your confidence (the queen of wands) the way you carried yourself like you owned every space you entered. But beneath that, I sensed a vulnerability, a softness you keep guarded (the moon).

You seemed like a dreamer, someone with big aspirations and a vision for life (the star). I admired the spark in your eyes, but I also felt you’d been through challenges that shaped your strength (the 9 of wands). There was an unspoken depth to you, like a story waiting to be unraveled. Meeting you wasn’t just exciting, it felt fated (the wheel of fortune). I knew instantly I wanted to know everything about you, to understand the fire and the mystery within.

Group 2:

When I first saw you, you felt like a breath of fresh air (the fool). You were radiant, glowing with positivity and a sense of wonder that drew me in immediately. There was a purity to your energy, as if you saw the world through hopeful eyes (the sun).

What stood out most was your ability to balance lightheartedness with grace. You seemed so composed, yet approachable (temperance). I was intrigued by how effortlessly you connected with those around you, like you brought harmony wherever you went (the 6 of pentacles).

But then, I noticed something deeper. Behind your warmth, there was a quiet intelligence and a mind that didn’t miss a thing (the page of swords). You’re not just light and joy, you’re thoughtful, someone who sees life for what it truly is and chooses to focus on the beauty anyway. I couldn’t take my eyes off you.

Group 3:

You took my breath away. There was an elegance about you, a quiet strength that radiated calm and control (the high priestess). You seemed untouchable, as if you lived in a world of your own creation (the 7 of cups). I couldn’t help but admire how composed you were, how you exuded wisdom without even saying a word (the hermit).

But I also saw your passion, the fire that flickered behind your calm exterior (the knight of wands). You’re someone who follows their heart, even if it means taking risks. It made me wonder what fuels that passion, what dreams, what desires, what secrets.

Meeting you felt like standing before a masterpiece. You’re both inspiring and intimidating, someone I knew would challenge me to grow (the emperor). You were unforgettable, and I was already captivated by the idea of uncovering all your layers.

Group 4:

You had this grounded, earthy energy that immediately made me feel at ease (the king of pentacles). You seemed so dependable, someone who could be both nurturing and fiercely protective (the empress). There was a warmth to you, like you could make anyone feel at home just by being near.

But what caught my attention was your determination. You’re someone who doesn’t give up easily, and it shows in the way you carry yourself (the 8 of pentacles). I could tell that you’ve worked hard to be the person you are, and it made me admire you even more.

There was also this magnetic charm about you, as if you didn’t realize how captivating you were (the lovers). You’re the kind of person people dream about meeting, the perfect balance of strength and tenderness (the strength). From the moment I met you, I knew I wanted to build a life with you, one rooted in love and stability.

got me blushing, giggling n kicking my feet

[monzamash]

my side of the sofa — lando norris

rating – mature (language, sexual references) requested for✨monzamusings✨ inspired by the kooks' sofa song – and i kinda want to continue this lil story... lmk what you think x

lando was the andy to your april, the tom to your zendaya – on paper there was no logical reason why your dynamic worked, polar opposites in almost every way. he was sunshine personified, wildly charming and devilishly handsome. he was the kind of guy who wore his heart on his sleeve, staunchly loyal with a smile brighter than the stars he swore you hung in the night sky.

in contrast, you walked on the darker side of life; a little mysterious, quietly confident and self assured but humble, generous and effortlessly beautiful but to some, you were intimidating – always kind and caring but scary until those impenetrable walls that had been iron clad from birth started to come down.

somehow lando norris had achieved what most thought was impossible.

it started small with knowing smiles and inside jokes – my god, you had jokes for days! and he laughed at every single one, without fail. wild curls thrown back and smile lines crinkled together, creating a jigsaw you desperately wanted to piece together. you loved in his dry british sense of humour – dark, macabre jokes sprinkled with tasteful sarcasm that he saved just for you. on paper, you couldn’t make sense of it, how your heart felt safe with someone so different to you.

“you know that giving a guy a key to your apartment means things are getting serious right? like, way more serious than a stupid label…”

lando stood in your kitchen, patiently brewing you a cup of tea – strong and dark with the tiniest dash of milk, just the way you liked it, while you scrounged around in the cupboards for the shortbread you bought on a whim just in case you had visitors, though rare it did happen from time to time. why the fuck did I put them up there, you muttered under your breath. lando placed down the teaspoon he’d been drumming on your countertop and came to your rescue, his warm hand resting on you lower back as he reached up beside your head and plucked the shortbread from the top shelf with ease.

“short arse.”

“prick.” you quipped back, snatching the delicious snack from his hand and skipping away.

“and to answer your question – no, i don’t think giving you a key means anything but being smart because it saves me having to come all the way down here to unlock the door for you... because you're here allll the time,” your drawling tone earned a pinch to the ribs as you launched onto the sofa, lando following closely behind.

“i’m here all the time because you call me, miss ‘i’m scared of the dark and need a big, strong man to look after me’,” lando mocked in a high pitched voice, causing you to scoff into the hot cup of tea nestled in your hands.

“big feels generous…”

a shocked expression swept across lando’s face – eyebrows raised as he playfully brushed off your burn, “ooh does it now?” his attitude turning cocky in the blink of an eye.

“i don’t think that’s how you felt last week in monaco – just saying,” he shrugged before taking an exaggerative sip from his mug, your eyes suspiciously narrowed but the smile itching the corners of your mouth threatened to give you away.

“admit it.”

"no way!”

“come oooon, admit that i’m big or i’m not watching vanderpump with you.”

lando quickly grabbed the remote control from the coffee table in the midst of his ultimatum and held it above his messy head of curls as you carelessly shuffled into his tracksuit-clad lap, determined to take back what belonged to you.

“don’t you dare threaten me, norris – i have so much dirt on you so you do not want to push me…” you couldn't be serious if you tried.

"all the dirt you have on me includes you, my sweet girl so do your worst,” he taunted with a whisper, his smug smile making your eyes roll.

he had no idea who he was dealing with.

“three words; facetime in singapore… or maybe you need me to re-jog your memory?” lando’s face dropped in disbelief, dragging his bottom lip between his two front teeth at the memory but as he peered into your playful eyes, a dubious scoff puffed from his mouth.

"pfft, you wouldn’t do it…”

“oh baby,” you mocked, hands pressed to his tight chest as you settled into his lap, eliciting a groan when you looked down at him, “try me and find out..”

lando's eyes fluttered shut for a millisecond as his head lulled back in defeat, placing the remote on your side of the sofa, “you win.”

“i always win.”

lando softly hummed, tilting his head with a smirk, “nah ‘cause after all that, who’s side of the sofa are you on?” the proud smile lit up his handsome face and you couldn’t help but roll your eyes at how goofy and beautiful he looked admiring his handy work.

“so you see, i win. and maybe you can too.”

“oh, i’m definitely winning.” you leaned in with a smile and pressed a firm kiss to his perfect lips, melting into his touch. the one thing you knew for sure was that you could kiss him all day, every day, maybe for the rest of your life.

lando was the first to come up for air, eyes blurry and heart shaped while you took a couple more seconds to return to the real world, begrudgingly opening them to see the sweetest human being staring right back. the sigh he exhaled was so deep that it reverberated through your bones, worrying you a little until his hands brushed down your sides and the smile etched on his face remained.

“why are you being such a chicken about us being together?”

“i’m not being a chicken, i’m just being realistic,” you whispered, desperately wanting to change the subject, “... your eyes look really pretty.”

lando chuckled, “i know they are so why don’t you want to wake up to them every morning and tell me that, huh? because i wanna do that.”

“tell yourself that you have pretty eyes?”

it was lando’s turn to eye roll and plant a soft smack to your backside, “such a smartarse.”

“you love it.”

“yeah i do and i love you sooooo…” lando nudged gently, searching for an answer that would ease his fear of losing you.

“soooo…” you mimicked but quickly shied away from his intense gaze, “i’m in love with you too, you dumbarse but we’re weird and so different to one another and i feel like people aren't going to understand us and ruin everything... what do you think?”

you hadn't even realised that you'd started chewing through the black varnish on your nails until lando gently grasped your wrist and laced his fingers with yours. he sighed and kissed the back of your hand – the pause in conversation gave him time to gather his thoughts while the circles he drew into your palm with the pad of his thumb calmed your racing mind.

lando answered hundreds of questions every day but he was struggling to think of a time when his response to a question held this much meaning. actions meant everything to you, and he couldn't wait to hold your hand in public and not be afraid of getting caught sneaking kisses in the paddock when the two of you were meant to be working, but words were a good place to start.

“what i think is that we love each other, yeah? and what i know is that i don't give a shit what other people think because you're fucking hot and i love being weird with you, my scary little angel of death,” he teased, tickling your sides until tears ran down your cheeks and you succumbed to his embrace, face buried in his neck.

“i love being weird with you too.”

shout out to mar (@percervall) for the prompt! more writing...

[evergumi]

M. FUSHIGURO ⋆ no more running.

pairing ⋆ guilty!megumi fushiguro x reader

summary ⋆ megumi cant be close to you anymore at all. hes avoiding you, and you dont know why. it hurts. missing your friendship, you are determined to find out why hes doing this.. ending in a unique relationship

warnings ⋆ fluff, fluff, fluff !! one sooort of spicy kiss heh :P also lowkey angsty.. poor gumi thinks hes hurt you but you prove him wrong ! we love y/n <3

wc ⋆ 2.56k words

a/n ⋆ awww the cuties ! i love gumi sm omg my adorable boyfieee, anyways enjoy ! i lowkey dont like this buttt :((

the warm glow of the setting sun stretched across the training grounds as you and nobara exchanged quick strikes, the air sharp with the rhythm of your sparring. you moved effortlessly, feeling the rush of energy, but something in the corner of your vision caught your attention. megumi stood at the edge of the field, his posture tense, eyes fixed on you. you knew exactly where his gaze was: the scar on your neck, a permanent reminder of that day.

you couldn’t help the tightness in your chest. you’d never asked him about it, never pushed him, but you knew it weighed on him—that day. the day he was trapped inside his own body. the day he killed two people he cared about the most. the day he hurt you.

"hey, fushiguro," you called out, your voice light, teasing, but there was an edge to it that betrayed your curiosity. you paused mid-motion, turning toward him with a grin as nobara glanced at you knowingly, heading toward her water bottle where yuji was standing. "wanna spar?"

for a moment, megumi didn’t respond. his eyes stayed on you, but they were unreadable, heavy. his jaw clenched. when he finally spoke, his words were quiet. "no thanks," he muttered, his gaze flickering to the scar on your neck, then quickly darting away. "i’m… busy."

you bit your lip, sensing the guilt in his tone. it was almost like he was afraid to be near you, and that stung more than you expected. he’d been distant these past few days, but maybe it was just a one-time thing. maybe he really was busy. you smiled, brushing it off.

"busy with what?" you asked softly, the teasing edge in your voice. "you don’t seem to be occupied, fushi."

"with—uh. itadori. me and itadori were heading to the… uh… store," he mumbled, looking anywhere but at you.

you frowned, your eyes shifting to where yuji was chatting with nobara, totally unaware of the tension between you and megumi. he was holding out a towel for her, laughing as she tossed her empty water bottle at his head. you smiled softly at the sight but then turned back to megumi.

"yuji… seems busy with his own things," you murmured, watching him shift under your gaze. his eyes avoided yours, and you couldn’t help but notice the bead of sweat rolling down his temple. maybe it was just sixteen-year-old-boy things, you thought, trying to convince yourself. but it still stung a little.

"oi! itadori! get the hell over here!" megumi called out, his voice rough, as if he couldn’t get away fast enough. yuji scrambled over with a pout, and megumi grabbed him by the collar, pulling him along hurriedly as they left.

you frowned after them, a strange mix of confusion and something else stirring in your chest. why was he avoiding you? why did it feel like he was running away from something that had nothing to do with the store?

this wouldn’t be the last time. over the next few days, you’d start to notice little things. his avoidance grew clearer. texts would go unanswered for hours, or when they were answered, they felt curt. and every time you tried to ask him to hang out, there was always an excuse.

you decided to reach out again, despite the growing frustration in your chest.

you hey fushiguro! wanna hang out today? maybe watch tangled in my dorm for the millionth time?

you smirked to yourself. tangled was your favorite movie, and you knew megumi wouldn’t be able to resist.

megumi can't, got stuff to do. sorry.

you frowned at your screen, your grip tightening imperceptibly, your smile fading.

you oh, okay. well, tell me if you change your mind!

megumi yeah, sure. maybe.

you stared at the message for a while, the vague response gnawing at you. megumi had always been blunt, but he never seemed to shy away from hanging out before. so why now? what was he busy with?

you walked to the dojo early, hoping to catch megumi before his training session. as you approached, you saw him deep in conversation with yuji and nobara, laughing about something—you couldn’t hear exactly what, but their laughter seemed genuine. when you stepped into the room, the conversation stilled for a moment.

megumi didn’t turn to greet you. he just nodded quickly, his eyes darting back to the floor. yuji, on the other hand, waved at you, totally oblivious to the tension.

"hey, you finally here?" yuji grinned. "we’re just talking about our next mission."

"yeah…" you said softly, but your eyes flickered back to megumi. "hey, fushi, wanna train?"

he hesitated. too long of a hesitation. then, he mumbled something you couldn’t quite catch.

"um, maybe later. i think i have a… thing," he said, trailing off before turning back to yuji.

your heart sank. thing? was he just brushing you off again?

you hey. you still up for tangled? we don’t have to do that if you're not comfortable, of course! i just want to hang out.

megumi no, sorry.

you oh. okay, ig.

megumi sorry. just been busy. i didn’t mean to make it awkward.

you it’s fine. just… if you don’t want to talk, it’s okay. no need to make excuses.

you stared at the messages for a long time. the words felt like a punch to the gut, but at the same time, they made your chest ache. what did you even do? was he avoiding you because of that day? the day when he hurt you? was he punishing himself for it? or was he just… shutting you out?

you walked down the hallway toward the dorms after sparring, your body still buzzing from the fight. nobara had gone off to take a shower, and yuji was probably somewhere being loud, as usual. but tonight, something felt different. you couldn’t shake the feeling that megumi had been avoiding you more than usual.

as you passed the common area, you noticed the dim light spilling from the small courtyard outside. curiosity pulled you in that direction. the quiet night was starting to settle, and everyone else was winding down. there, leaning against the stone wall of the courtyard, stood megumi.

he didn’t notice you at first. his shoulders were tense, hands shoved deep in his pockets, and his gaze was lost in the shadows. he looked almost… distant, like he was trying to escape from something. but you knew—you knew—he wasn’t running from the world outside. he was running from you.

you paused for a moment, your thoughts racing. then, despite every instinct telling you to leave it alone, you stepped forward. gravel crunched softly beneath your shoes as you approached.

"fushiguro," you called, your voice cutting through the stillness of the night.

he flinched like your words had startled him. slowly, he turned his head, but not enough to meet your gaze right away. his eyes lingered on the ground, and when they finally lifted, they didn’t seem to focus on you. they flicked up, then down again.

"hey," you said again, trying to keep your voice steady. but there was something shaky in it you couldn’t hide. "are you gonna keep avoiding me?"

there was a long silence. then, he spoke. his voice was low, strained. "i'm not avoiding you."

you raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms. "really? 'cause it sure seems like you are."

megumi shifted uncomfortably against the wall, his gaze drifting away again. "it’s not like that."

you could feel your frustration building. every time you tried to reach him, he shut you out. you stepped closer, standing just a few feet away. your voice grew sharp.

"then what is it? why do you keep pushing me away?"

he hesitated, his jaw tightening, then finally met your eyes. guilt and something darker swirled in his expression. the same guilt he’d been carrying since that day. the day he hurt you.

"come on, fushiguro! this is stupid! why are you doing this? don’t you realize it hurts me?" your voice rose, frustration spilling over.

his gaze flickered to your neck, the scar still fresh, and for a moment, it looked like he might say something. but instead, he stepped back, his shoulders tensing.

"god, just—just shut up!" he hissed.

you stopped talking immediately. the words stuck in your throat.

"don’t you realize? i can’t do this anymore!" he exploded, his eyes wild with frustration. "i can’t just—just watch you knowing what i did!"

and in that moment, you knew. he wasn’t just avoiding you. he was fighting something inside himself.

you took a deep breath, stepping forward, your pulse quickening. "fushiguro… i…"

but before you could say anything else, he was already walking away, his steps quick and purposeful. leaving you standing in the cold silence.

you stood there, the words still hanging between you, unspoken, unanswered.

and then you moved.

one step, then another, quickening your pace until you were right behind him, fingers brushing against his shoulder.

"don’t touch me!" he snapped.

you recoiled, hurt flashing across your face. so, he had yelled not once, not twice—but now three times. at you. you couldn't breathe, the question on your lips strangled by confusion and pain.

"what did i do wrong?" you whispered, almost to yourself.

megumi glanced away, a sharp look of anguish in his eyes. "i can’t. i can’t do it. i can’t come near you, talk to you, touch you, look at you."

you frowned up at him, confused. "can’t do… why?"

"i can’t go a day without thinking about what i did to you!" he hissed, voice breaking. "i see that scar, and i beat myself up over it. i… i can’t look at it. i can’t even spar with you. i can't… even stand my hand being this close to yours."

without thinking, you reached out, gently taking his hand, giving it a soft squeeze. you looked him in the eyes, your gaze tender. "look," you murmured, cupping his calloused hand with your own. "is this hurting me in any way?"

he didn’t answer.

you brought his hand to your face, cupping your cheek with it. "am i hurt?" you whispered, eyes closing for a moment, savoring the warmth of his touch. you felt his thumb twitch as it brushed against your skin. you leaned into it, your breath catching. "am i hurt, fushiguro?"

you stood there, the weight of his hand in yours grounding you, as the silence stretched between you. his thumb brushed against your scar, and you could feel the tension in his body, the way his muscles were taut as if he were about to break. you could see the guilt clouding his eyes—heavy, suffocating. you knew what he was thinking. he was terrified.

"you're not hurting me," you whispered, your voice quiet but steady. you brought his hand to your cheek, pressing it gently against your skin. "see? you're not hurting me, megumi."

he didn’t say anything at first, but his breath hitched at the touch. his eyes flickered between yours, searching for something—maybe an answer, maybe reassurance. his thumb gently caressed your jaw, and you felt your heart race in your chest.

he opened his mouth as if to speak, but nothing came out. instead, his gaze shifted to your neck—the scar that was still so fresh, the scar he couldn't bring himself to look at. you watched his jaw tighten, his gaze drifting downward like it always did when he was avoiding something he couldn’t confront.

you took a small step closer, your fingers brushing over the back of his hand, encouraging him, urging him to let go. "megumi," you whispered again, this time a little more gently, "please… look at me."

his chest rose and fell with every shaky breath, and for a moment, you wondered if he was going to pull away. but he didn’t. he stayed, standing there in the quiet of the night, his body so close to yours that you could feel the heat radiating off of him.

slowly, carefully, his hand moved to your neck. his thumb brushed lightly over your scar, and you could feel him flinch, just a little. but then he stopped, his hand hovering over your skin, like he was afraid to touch it too much. you gently guided his fingers down your neck, showing him that you weren’t afraid.

"megumi," you whispered, your voice softer this time, "i’m not afraid."

his gaze finally met yours, and you saw it—the hesitation, the guilt, the regret all etched in his features. but underneath all of that, you saw something else, something raw and vulnerable that made your heart ache.

"i’m so sorry," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. "i can't… i can’t stand seeing it. what i did to you…"

you shook your head, a small smile forming on your lips. "megumi, you’re not the only one hurting. but i’m not afraid of you. i never was. i never will be."

he swallowed, his hand trembling in yours. he was close enough now that you could feel the warmth of his breath, could hear the soft hitch of his breath as his eyes flickered down to your lips.

you closed the distance between you, your heart pounding in your chest as you lifted your other hand to his face, cupping it gently. "look at me," you whispered again, your voice barely audible. "please."

he did. and when his eyes met yours, everything else seemed to fade away. there were no more words, no more hesitation. just the soft, steady rhythm of your breaths as your faces inched closer.

he leaned in, your lips brushing against his. it was tentative at first, just the barest of touches, as if he were still afraid that he might hurt you. but when you didn’t pull away, when you leaned into him, the kiss deepened. his hand found the back of your neck, pulling you closer, his other hand sliding to your waist, holding you as if you might disappear.

you let out a soft gasp as you melted into him, the kiss growing more urgent, more desperate, as if you both needed this, needed to feel the connection, to feel the warmth of each other’s presence after so much distance. his lips were soft against yours, and you could taste the mixture of fear and longing that had been building between you for days.

when you finally pulled away, breathless, you rested your forehead against his, your heart still racing in your chest. you could feel his pulse under your fingertips, his breathing shallow as he tried to steady himself.

"megumi," you murmured, your voice barely a whisper. "you’re not the only one who’s been hurting. but i’m here. i’m not going anywhere."

his eyes were wide, almost searching, like he couldn’t believe what had just happened. his thumb gently traced your jaw, his touch tender now, as if he were finally allowing himself to feel what had been building inside of him.

"i’m sorry," he whispered again, his voice cracking with emotion. "i didn’t want to hurt you. i don’t ever want to hurt you again."

you smiled softly, bringing your hand to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm. "you won’t," you said simply. "i'll say it again. i’m not afraid of you, megumi. i never was."

the tension between you had finally broken. and in its place was something deeper—something real, something raw. you didn’t need words anymore. all you needed was him, and you knew, in that moment, that he needed you too.

a/n ⋆ nonnie ! ty for this req, this was so fun to write ! i honestly had trouble at the start butttttt omg the fluffy moments near the end made my heart melttt <33 i hope this was what you were looking for !

i heart the way megumi cares soooo much for yn but just wont admit it :( he literally says it but so indirectly yk ?? like he toooootally doesnt care..

thank you for reading, ily ! lmk if you wanna be tagged and remember, reqs are always open loves !

© evergumi

[thoughtfulfiction]

Shift in the Routine II

Thank you so much for the love on part 1! Hope this one gives you all the feels. Joe requests are open!

masterlist

“Can you just…tell me exactly what happened?From the beginning.”

You sigh, running a hand over your face, thinking about the various ups and downs you’d been through emotionally the last few days. “There’s nothing new to tell, I told him I need to think about things and he was supportive of that. He really hurt me Rach, I can’t just—forget about it and move on.”

“I completely understand where you’re coming from. It’s just,” she pauses, trying to find the words. “What about—”

“The game on Monday night? Under no circumstances am I watching that,” you promise her, crossing your arms in protest of what was expected of you.

“Bengals defense missing a tackle? Likely place for them to be. This game is going to give me an ulcer.” You slammed your drink on the table, putting your head in your hands in hopes that they’d get a stop if you looked away for a bit.

Rachel watched silently, still trying to understand the rules of this football thing. She found you more entertaining than the game most of the time.

“Oh my god, how many times are we going to go for it on fourth and short and not convert?” This season had been full of trying moments, forcing you think back on the few times you snuck in to catch a peak of what Joe was seeing on film when these things would happen.

“FACEMASK?” You yell. “There’s no way in the world they just miss that? Hello? They’re literally trying to rip his head off, that should’ve been a first dow—wait,” you pause, standing up out of your seat for the first time in a few hours. “Is he…is he limping? He’s limping, right?”

Rachel sits up, joining in your concern but also slightly amused at the situation, considering the fact that you said you weren’t going to watch the game and the two of you had been glued to the tv before kickoff. “No matter how much you don’t want to admit it to anyone, including yourself, you still care about him. A lot.”

“I do care,” you swallowed, feeling like your heart was in your stomach at the thought of being in pain. That sleeve didn’t look like it was going to protect anything. “Maybe I care a little too much? Which is exactly why I’m in this predicament. Because let’s be real, on paper? We do not make sense. He doesn’t even flinch spending $3 million and I cry a little if I add too many things to my Amazon cart.”

Rachel laughs, tossing a few pieces of Chex mix into her mouth. “That’s because your job is stingy with raises. And with Joe? Just talk to him. Go see him tomorrow, give him his gift and go from there, see how you feel about everything.”

You admired her ability to put a positive spin on a situation that you felt was pretty much doomed. Maybe you could have one more day of happiness with him tomorrow before walking away for good. That may be your best bet, to just cut all communication and quit cold turkey. After his birthday of course. Dumping someone before their birthday just sounded really terrible and you’d spent a long time getting him this special present so there was no way you weren’t going to see the look on his face in person as he opened it.

The drive felt uncomfortably long. They had gotten a much needed win and he seemed happy enough postgame. But what if he didn’t want to see you? You’d been so focused inward on your feelings and what you needed to do that you really hadn’t had the time to even wonder what Joe’s thought process was. Just in case he wasn’t in the mood for company, you knocked on the door instead of letting yourself in.

Clad in a purple Nike hoodie you remembered borrowing a few times, there he stood in front of you with a blank look on his face.

Solid start.

“Why did you knock? You could’ve just come in.” His hair looks extra fluffy, like he woke up not too long ago, taking it extremely easy after coming home late and taking quite a few hits in last night’s game.

You pushed down the nerves, determined to make today neither awkward nor painful for all parties involved. “Happy birthday. I brought your favorite smoothie from Rune and…did a package come in this morning?”

He thanks you, grabbing the drink out of your hand and closing the door behind you. You can tell he’s moving gingerly. “Yeah I had them put it in the garage. So…are we still—”

“In relationship limbo? Definitely. But today is your day and I’m not a monster,” you joke as a smile forms on his face. And I wanted to see you for myself to make sure you weren’t going to lie. How’s your knee?”

Joe looks at you affectionately, almost visibly resisting the urge to reach out to you. His first instinct was always to give you a comforting squeeze or a gentle hand on your shoulder as a form of reassurance, he just wasn’t sure if that would be appropriate given the circumstances.“Careful, it almost sounded like you were worried about me for a second there.”

“I do not care about you. I care about my favorite football team’s starting quarterback and his well being for the rest of the season. That’s all. Don’t read too much into it.” You were lying through your teeth and both of you knew it.

He nods slightly, catching you looking at his leg or any sign of pain in his face if he so much as leaned over the counter. And if you still had a soft spot for him somewhere in there that was enough. “I feel ok. It’s sore but it’s Tuesday and the day after games is always touch and go. You know that.”

You quickly learned just how exhausting some postgame days were. His body bruised easily so sometimes he looked like he’d honestly been in a fight of some kind. And lost…badly. Moving around was slow and painful as if he were closer to being put in a retirement home than he was to playing another bruising game the next week. But the next day was usually back to normal and you were always in awe at his ability to bounce back. Having everything laid out in front of you like this made it easy to understand why he had such a strict schedule. Eating and sleeping and everything in between were catered to help him recover.

“Are you ready to open your gift?”

Joe sighs, stating that he doesn’t need more presents but you give him a look and he knows it’s best to just follow you to the garage. “I didn’t realize how big this is,” he notes, a hint of apprehension in his voice, “you really didn’t have to get me anything.”

He runs his fingers along the top of wrapping, deep in thought for a few seconds before you urge him to open it. Carefully peeling back the paper, Joe pulls back the layers to reveal a one of a kind Seinfeld painting.

“Before you say anything, look at the back,” you tell him when he looks at you like he’s about to open his mouth. On the back is a handwritten note from Jerry Seinfeld himself. Joe’s jaw actually drops and he’s rendered speechless, silently rereading the words over and over. “It goes great with the pants, that I somehow knew you’d be wearing today. How predictable.”

He shrugs and looks down at the well worn blue pants, trying and failing to hide his smirk. “What can I say?”

“That you’re a millionaire who’s also a serial outfit repeater? What would Anna Wintour say if she could see you now?”

“She’d probably say that I pull off the lazy look very well,” he retorts with a laugh. Looking back at the painting and then at you, Joe feels a rush of emotion threatening to overwhelm him. He had no idea how you got this but he’s sure it took a long time and you went to great lengths to make it possible, to make him happy. “Thank you,” he whispers, suddenly not trusting his voice.

You find yourself in his arms before you even register that your body has moved, clinging onto him like your life depends on it. Part of you wanted to stay, be in this moment and let yourself fall back into the routine of a grueling season with the person who clearly brought you an immense joy unlike anything you’d ever experienced. Joe was your peace, your picnic on a sunny day and it was scary to see how easily the two of you hadn’t missed a beat, teasing each other and talking like lifelong friends who could read each other like a book. The thing that was breaking your heart the most is that Joe had become your best friend, the one you could talk to about any and everything while simultaneously making your heart beat out of your chest at the effortless romance that came from this playful and unexpected connection.

But was that really enough? When you gave his body one more squeeze before stepping back, Joe couldn’t help the awful thought going through his mind that this could be the last hug. Not wanting to tear himself away from the embrace, he awkwardly and very hesitantly lets you go, standing alone in the garage after you wish him happy birthday again and leave. All that progress he’s thought the two of you had just made was out the door and he was stuck with the coolest gift he’d ever received and a sense of emptiness inside him that only you could fill.

The next day in the facility he was locked in. Focused solely on football from the moment he walked in, went through walkthrough as he tried to avoid the Hard Knocks crew and conducted his weekly press conference like it was another day. Only after he got in the car did he allow himself to really acknowledge that he was missing you. Yesterday was supposed to have helped and it did, but it also just made him realize that life was just better with you around and he couldn’t keep letting you walk away.

He’d admittedly been quiet last night at dinner with his parents and when they asked if he was okay he just told them that the season was weighing on him a bit, not exactly ready to divulge the fact that he was seeing someone and had potentially ruined it all in the same breath. That may result in too many questions he wasn’t ready to answer. So he scheduled time to speak with the one person he could always turn to for guidance and perspective.

And 24 hours later, as soon as he walked in the door, he set his stuff down and went upstairs to his room for an emergency Zoom meeting with his therapist. After the session was over and he had a moment to think, he pondered his therapist’s words urging him to think about one defining moment that encapsulates your relationship to guide him in his next steps.

The two of you had finished eating dinner during the bye week on the couch. Sushi boxes were discarded on the table as you forced him to watch some cooking show. You slid your feet under his leg, desperately searching for warmth in places where the blanket just wasn’t enough.

“Your feet cold again?” You nod. “Babe, you might have circulation issues or something, should probably get that checked out,” he grins, lifting himself up so he can grab your legs and put them in his lap. His touch instantly brings heat to your limbs, shooing away the frigid air and replacing it with a soft glow that you’re pretty sure has surrounded you since you and Joe made things official.

Once you’ve warmed up enough you cross over to the other side of the couch to wrap yourself up in him, as close as you possibly can. Nights like this feel like his own little peace of heaven, your arm resting casually on his chest and your bodies practically glued to each other, becoming one simultaneous heartbeat. He presses a lingering kiss to the top of your head, laying there in complete bliss, all of worries about football, the team and their season out the window for a bit. The weight of carrying a franchise is easily lifted when you’re around, keeping his feet on the ground in times when he would have his head in the clouds. For one second everything makes sense and it’s perfect…until it hits him square in the chest.

He’s in love.

Joe comes back to himself, snapping out of that bye week memory wiping a tear that he hadn’t realize was coming down his face. His heart tightens at recognizing why he’d lashed out at you and said those horrible things. It wasn’t football stress at all. It was fear driving him, he reverted back to the person he was trying to work on. And instead of being honest, he’d built an emotional wall around himself disguised as work stress to keep himself from saying those three words at a time he thought could be too soon for the two of you and scare you off. Because it was definitely terrifying him, even if he felt it. And now he may have lost you as a result of his actions.

On Friday, he actually looked forward to enjoy the off day, after he got his morning workout in at the facility. And then you texted him to tell him you were walking into the house.

You looked nervous and he didn’t like it. “Is this a bad time?” He shakes his head no, unsure if he wants to do this right now. The quarterback was really regretting coming home right about now. Being at the stadium watching the guys play golf would’ve been a much faster but still painful death. This was just torture.

“I’ve been thinking…a lot. And,” you take in a deep breath, hoping that filling your lungs with lots of air can make what you have to say a bit easier.

Joe pales, thinking that you’ve put off breaking up with him because of his birthday. He wants to brace himself for impact. He should respect your wishes, whether he agrees or not, but you both know he isn’t one to go down without a fight. “Before you dump me, I just—I have to tell you how sorry I am. You bulldozed through my life like freight train with your royalty jokes and your horrible day and I knew I needed more. Wanted to know everything about you. But I’m not great at this. Emotions aren’t easy to talk about and I usually pride myself on not showing them and you’ve brought them out of me. So when things got a little too real, I shut down. You’re one of the greatest things in my life but I really messed it up.”

“Joe…” you say quietly, begging the tears not to come.

He stops you, “if I don’t get this out, I might not get another chance. I’m sorry for making you feel like I don’t want to be around you when the truth is that sometimes it’s all I want. You mentioned schedules and—and routines. Nowhere in my plans did it include falling for someone this soon and I pushed you away because I was scared, not because you’re a distraction but because—being with you makes me have to admit that the things I feel for you aren’t like anything I’ve ever felt before. I’m sorry I hurt you in the midst of realizing that.”

You look at him, trying to memorize every one of his features. The natural bags under his eyes are a bit more pronounced, a slight glimmer in his ocean eyes give away all of the emotions written on his face. He looks devastated, a look all too familiar to you since you and the entire country have seen him look dejected and defeated several times throughout the season. But there’s something more distressing hidden behind his gaze. An indescribable amount of worry etched across his features.

Joe looks…heartbroken.

The honesty and raw intensity of his words are almost enough to render you speechless, but you came here for a reason.

You clear your throat before you speak, biting back your own emotions. “Joseph I’m not breaking up with you. Believe me, I wanted to and I thought about all the reasons why maybe I should. Because I don’t think I’m built for this life,” you look down at your feet, heaving out another breath before looking up at him and holding out your hand for him to hold.

“None of this is easy and sometimes, yeah I doubt myself. And you are very moody for like half the year. But there’s nowhere else I want to be and no one else I’d rather be with. Through the honeymoon phase or 60 years from now when when we’re senile and yelling at each other about the tv remote. Mostly me yelling you staring angrily but—as long as we’re together, I really don’t care. What I’m saying is…I don’t want easy. I want you.”

The tension in his shoulders is released almost immediately. “So you’re saying you’re stuck with me?” He laughs, a sense of relief taking over him. “And you aren’t just saying that because you haven’t had Boca in almost two weeks, right?”

“Your ability to get me their Maple Mascarpone Cheesecake whenever I want is not the main reason why I love you. That’s just one of many.”

You take a second to realize what you just said, opening and closing your mouth a few times but no words are coming out.

Joe’s smiling so big his face is starting to hurt. “You just said you love me.”

Tilting your head to look at him, laughing a little. You can’t believe you let it slip out like that. “I did, didn’t I?”

“Say it again,” he says softly, squeezing your hand and taking a few steps toward you.

You shake your head, one of your hands finding their way into his hair as you pull him in.

The man’s breath hitches as he melts into your touch, the kiss slowly putting him back together, free from all the anxious energy he’d put aside as a defense mechanism. “Joseph, I love you. I love you. I love you.”

The sound of your words radiate against his lips, sending a never ending shiver down his spine.

"I love you too,” he utters with such sweetness you feel like your heart is exploding. “And I missed you.”

He leans in and pours two weeks of apologies and love into the kiss and after all this time of not being close to him, you never want to let him go again. You eventually do separate, only because you need air, and giggle at the fact that you actually still haven’t let each other go. With your fingers intertwined, you lead him upstairs. “Do you need help packing?” Joe steals another quick peck, whispering yes because he’s not letting you out of his sight until it’s time for him to leave tomorrow.

None of this was part of the plan but now that your soul has found its match, you really don’t have a choice but to dive in.

[quarterlifekitty]

Weaknesses part 10: baby photos

What they love about yours. Warning, this one is a little more characterized than usual, I think— reader is a bit less vague and general.

Gaz is obsessed with your baby fashion. That time you wore a little denim overall dress with a little denim bucket hat…. That’s peak style to him. Your tiny little sweatshirt that had Ernie from Sesame Street taking a bubble bath on it, worn with the tiny plaid shorts, socks with the ruffled edge, teeny tiny white sneakers…. Mfer is taking notes.

Soap is the guy who insists you haven’t changed at all. He sees these photos of you sleeping in your crib with a little part in your lips and he’s like “it’s uncanny, hen… how y’still look just like that when yer sleepin’”. He’s cooing over how you still have that same little cowlick, the same little smile when he lets you have some of his ice cream that you used to get when your parents would do the same.

Ghost feels hopeful when he sees your childhood photos. God knows he doesn’t have any of his own— wonders if any images of him as a baby even exist. When he thinks of having a family with you, he’s terrified because he has no idea what a real family is supposed to be. But your pictures make him think that it won’t be so hard.

Price is using your baby photos in his mental blueprints. He’s wondering if your baby will be born with his eyes or yours, with your nose, with your cheeks… It makes him excited. He already knew that any baby he had with you would be beautiful, but this just feels like more undeniable proof that your baby won’t just be cute, it’ll be perfection. Just like you are.

König is perhaps the most into your baby pictures. Like he’ll keep on in his wallet if you let him. He’s not even really sure why. He finds the images comforting, maybe because he still sees you as being this fragile, soft thing in his arms. And it makes him feel like a part of your family, when you point out all of your relatives, when you tell him what was going on the day the picture was taken, when he sees cake all over your cheeks and nose from your second birthday. He met you rather late in his life for his liking, perhaps. And the photos make him feel like he missed out on less of you.

Nikolai is a special case in that it seems he spends less time looking at your baby photos as he does looking at your adolescent photos. Noticing there are far fewer of them, how you’d put your hands up to block the camera, how you didn’t like to smile, and when you did it was awkward and apologetic. He sees how vivacious you were is a baby, and how little by little it was stripped from you as the anxiety and the self doubt was learned. It gives him a sense of determination. He wants you to feel as carefree as you did in those first few stages of life, with him. This is his reason to be.

[p0orbaby]

Getting You Alone Isn’t Easy

summary: two reckless lovers, one ill-timed call, and zero chance of stopping

warnings: suggestive but not explicit

a/n: the length of time it took me to decide on a title for this was painful

word count: 1.5k

part 1

-

You’re draped over Alexia, straddling her in the faint, golden light that sneaks through the blinds. Her hands grip your hips in that familiar way, like you’re the last thing keeping her from floating off. You’re gasping, breathless, clinging to the taut warmth of her body beneath you as though the world is ending and this is your only way to stay grounded. Her hands, usually gentle, are digging in hard enough to leave bruises, but she’s sweet like that, knows exactly when you need to feel it. You can almost picture the bruises they’ll leave behind, thumbprints like violet ink smudged across your skin, each one a reminder that she was here, and that she wanted you badly enough to leave a mark.

It’s been a day, one of those long ones that started with a sun-blinded hangover, progressed into a searing headache, and then—once you forced yourself to actually acknowledge the calls you missed last night—moved rapidly toward near apocalyptic levels of panic.

Somewhere between the drink you had to “take the edge off” and the fourth one you drank without even thinking about it, Alexia texted you, and it felt like a solution, or maybe a distraction, though those two things are the same to you most of the time.

So here you are, in the thick of it, your bodies wrapped around each other, your mind slipping into that strange, dreamlike state where it feels like your skin isn’t your own. Everything’s heightened—her touch, her scent, the whisper of her breath on your neck. You’re right at the edge, teetering, and then—

Your phone rings.

Of course it fucking does.

At first, you ignore it. The vibrating hum is muffled against the sheets, barely noticeable above your own heartbeat, but then it rings again, louder this time, insistent. It’s like a drill sergeant at dawn, determined to ruin whatever peace you’d managed to find. You freeze, eyes half-closed, but Alexia’s hands don’t loosen. She’s looking up at you with an expression that’s half bemused, half annoyed, as if she’s only just managed to convince herself that you’re here, and now you’re about to ruin it with some petty, buzzing bit of reality.

You almost get through it, on the cusp letting it go to voicemail or hurling the damn thing into the bottom of your Birkin where it belongs. But something in you—a survival instinct, maybe—forces you to reach for it, fumbling as you do so. Alexia’s eyes follow your hand, then flick back up to yours with an exasperated look that says, Really? Now?

You manage to grab it without rolling entirely off her, though it’s a close call. Her hands move down to your waist, still holding you in place as you glance at the screen, and of course, it’s George. It’s always George. You swear he has some kind of sixth sense, an uncanny ability to detect the exact moment you’ve slipped into some semblance of happiness, so he can yank you back with some catastrophe or another. The man is a walking interruption.

“Don’t,” Alexia murmurs, pulling you back to the matter at hand, her voice soft but firm, her hands slipping up to your ribs with a kind of slow, determined patience. But you know better. If you don’t answer now, he’ll only call back five more times, and each time, he’ll sound more panicked, until he finally leaves you a voice note that’s somehow worse than the call itself.

“I have to,” you mutter, as you answer, attempting to clear your throat and sound like you weren’t just seconds away from giving in to everything she was doing to you.

“Hello?” you say, trying and failing to keep the breathlessness out of your voice.

George’s voice crackles through the speaker, shrill and brimming with that particular brand of theatrical urgency agents reserve for “crises.” He sounds faintly nasal, the sort of voice you imagine would belong to a man with an allergy to anything fun. You imagine him sitting in his cold, grey office somewhere in Soho, every surface immaculate and white, his expression permanently fixed into a grimace of perpetual disappointment.

“You need to sit down,” he says, voice pitched in that “I’m barely holding it together” tone that never actually means anything good.

“I am sitting,” you manage, though it comes out sounding more like a gasp than anything else, because Alexia—God bless her—is now trailing her lips along the column of your throat, completely unbothered by the fact that you’re very much occupied now. In fact, you’re convinced she’s doing this on purpose, her eyes meeting yours with that devilish glint that says she’s fully aware of what she’s doing. You pull back and give her a look—part warning, part exasperation—but she only grins, slowly, like she’s daring you to keep up the charade.

George doesn’t miss a beat. “There are photos,” he says, each syllable dripping with an ominous weight that would make anyone else think he was delivering news of a tragedy.

“Photos?” you ask, as Alexia’s hand slips a little higher, her fingers just grazing the edge of your panties. You’re barely holding it together, biting down hard on your lip to keep from making a sound. “George, there are always photos. What are you on about?”

He sighs, the kind of exasperated sigh he reserves for when he’s forced to explain the intricacies of your own life to you. “Not just any photos,” he says, voice dropping to a whisper that somehow makes everything sound worse. “These are… explicit”

“Explicit?” you repeat, your voice catching because Alexia’s lips are trailing across your collarbone now, her fingers dangerously close to places that make it impossible to sound remotely professional. “Define explicit, George”

He pauses, a beat of silence so thick with hesitation you can practically see his nervous, tight-lipped expression. “You and Alexia. On that yacht. Full-on… everything. Let’s just say someone with a very long-range lens took a rather extensive interest in your… activities”

It takes a second for the words to register, but when they do, it’s like being doused in cold water. You’re suddenly hyper-aware of everything—the sweat on your skin, Alexia’s fingers toying with you, her mouth now having moved to the swell of your exposed breast. You can’t tell if you’re more annoyed or amused by the fact that, somehow, your most private moments have once again become public property.

Alexia looks up at you once more, eyes glinting with something between curiosity and enjoyment, as if she can tell exactly what George is saying and finds the whole thing hilarious.

“So you’re telling me,” you say, trying to sound casual, though it’s hard with Alexia’s hands and mouth all over you, “that someone out there’s publishing wildlife documentaries of my sex life?”

“Don’t be flippant,” George snaps, though his voice cracks a little, like he’s barely holding it together. “This is serious. The Daily Mail already has them. And they’re… well, they’re explicit. The kind of thing they’d plaster on the front page if they could get away with it”

For a moment, you consider the insanity of it all—your life, reduced to some tawdry tabloid spread, the kind of thing boring nosey housewives read in supermarket queues. You imagine the headlines, the breathless, shocked tones they’d use to describe “the scandal.” Never mind the fact that you’re not the first celebrity to get caught like this, nor will you be the last. But still, it stings in that strange, twisted way fame always does, a reminder that your life isn’t really your own.

“I’m sorry, George,” you say, barely stifling a moan as Alexia’s hand moves just right, making it almost impossible to keep up the conversation. “But I don’t exactly have a solution for you right now”

George lets out a strangled noise. “Well, you bloody well better come up with one. Unless you want the world to know what you look like without your clothes on. Which, I might add, is not exactly… career-friendly”

You stifle a laugh, more out of habit than anything else. Alexia’s fingers are moving with that slow, calculated patience she knows drives you mad, and you can feel your resolve slipping. “Look, George,” you say, your voice strained, “I’ll call you back. After I… handle things”

“What? You can’t just hang up on me!” he practically shrieks, but you’re already pressing ‘end call’ and tossing the phone aside.

The phone lands back somewhere on the bed, George’s panicked voice cutting off abruptly. For a moment, there’s silence, and then Alexia lets out a low, throaty laugh, her eyes alight with amusement. She reaches her free hand up, trailing her fingers along your jaw, and there’s something wicked in her smile that makes you forget the world outside the bedroom.

“Where were we?” you murmur, leaning down to capture her lips in a kiss, slow and lingering, the kind of kiss that makes you forget everything else.

“Right here,” she whispers, her voice soft but possessive, and you can’t help but smile as she pulls you back down, your bodies tangling once more as you lose yourself in her warmth.

[hexxedcore]

idk if you write for Jayce and I'm kinda having mixed feelings about him after act2 but hear me out: yandere! Jayce's first priority being to look for you after getting out of the hexcore

shamefully i am prioritising this because i have quite a lot of thoughts as of act two 💔. writing will be beneath the cut for people who wish to avoid spoilers. nsfw is included and given a separated section!

also, yes i write for (and love) jayce. i stand with my cancelled wife 💯

WARNINGS: YANDERE, possessive behaviour, delusion, unhealthy + toxic relationship, S2 ACT 2 SPOILERS. NSFW, marking

SFW:

If ‘tunnel vision’ was personified, it would be Jayce after coming out of the Arcane. This man clearly witnessed something so incomprehensibly horrible that it’s amped his determination up to 100%. Good luck with that.

After quite literally squashing Salo, his main mission is you. Find you and protecting you from whatever he witnessed in those Wild Runes from becoming true. Now, we don’t know how quickly time passed for him, but it had to be a long time. God knows what happened to you while he wasn’t there to keep a watchful eye on you. You were hopeless without him — you could be injured, or worse.

You were exactly where he thought you’d be. Tossing restlessly in a bed that was far too large for one person, wondering why exactly his absence was just so abrupt. No letter, no goodbye that morning; radio silence.

You were in for a shock when you were startled awake by the sound of something heavy and burdened being dragged on the floorboards, having little protection save for a knife you’d procured from the kitchen in the case that any burglars attempted to make themselves cozy.

And you were just about to throw it, too, when he stepped into the small gap of your bedside lamp. This was hardly the Jayce you knew; haggard, disheveled, scruffy — most of all, startled, his breathing laboured and his hands tightly clasping his hammer.

That man had dropped his weapon and was on you in seconds; holding you, clutching you, in the fear that you would dissipate if you weren’t treated carefully. The tight was warm and shaky, but most of all oh so incredibly suffocating.

That night there is one thing he’s promising you, like a mantra: he is never letting you go again.

NSFW:

This man is starving and there is absolutely nothing getting in the way of that. He comes out of the Arcane like he’s in a rut and poor old you for having to cope with it. Good luck.

Jayce doesn’t feel like he has the time to be sensual. He can, and still is of course, but he’s rough in the sense that it’s animalistic. He’s acting on his basest desires now, and that’s a stark desire for you.

There is nothing more that this man gets a kick out of than marking you. For general yandere hcs, yeah, but Act Two him? The whole world is finding out about it, believe it. And god forbid you leave some scratches on his back — he’d go feral.

Constantly muttering affirmations that you aren’t going anywhere, that you are so divine yet so so hopeless without him. You missed his cock while he was gone? He’ll make up for that, because like he’d let someone else do the job.

[sophiethewitch1]

What We Want - Chpt. 6 - Round Two. Fight!

In Which A Romantic Breaks The Universe

(Yandere!batboys x f!reader) 18+ MDNI!

SUMMARY

Another lonely birthday, another empty year. You miss your family. You're late for your bills and rent, and even then, you got robbed last Tuesday.

Still, you buy yourself a cupcake, because you need it. I mean, hey. What's dessert for if not to get over cheating boyfriends and dead relatives?

As you blow out the candle, watching the clock switch from 11:59 pm to midnight of the next day, you make a wish.

And because the world doesn't like to make much sense, it comes true. Your life is suddenly flipped on a dime, and you're stuck trying to catch up with it. Fantasy becomes reality. You're a Wayne now, apparently. Or you used to be. You're loved, you're rich, you're talented and powerful.

Well, sort of. Careful what you wish for, right?

(TRIGGER WARNINGS AND MASTERLIST HERE)

PREV - NEXT

Damn. Your indulgent TV stalking of the Wayne’s really doesn’t hit the same once you technically knew them. And you were hiding inside one of their bedrooms, inside one of their clothes, using their TV subscription. It just didn’t feel right. Morally, of course, but that wasn’t what you were talking about. No, you were just pissy your favourite pastime was basically ruined. You shovel another spoonful of cookie dough ice cream into your mouth, glaring through tired eyes at the screen.

There’s an up-close shot of Dick Grayson’s abs. The presenter ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ over his physical form, and you have to agree. You wish you had abs like that. Unfortunately, you did respond to most unwanted experiences with stress eating. As always with these celebrity figures, you can’t really tell if you want to be Dick or be with Dick. Your butt is nowhere near the level his is at.

While you hadn’t really set out today looking for shirtless pictures of the Waynes, it wasn’t like you were going to say no to them. So, when the gossip channel had switched from the reactions of the Waynes to last night’s fiasco to… this… you’d just kept watching.

You wonder if you should stop doing this. It’s definitely kind of creepy, and now you’d technically once been his… step-sister. What a mind fuck. You’ve been crushing on these dudes for a while, and now they were your ex-step siblings. This was like the start of a bad porno, but you knew you were not that lucky. And it wasn’t like you were going to start thinking of him as a brother any time soon. You hadn’t even met the guy. No, he was still firmly in the ‘celebrity crush’ section of your mind. Pretty and untouchable. The way things are supposed to be.

Which was also bad because you would probably have to meet and interact with him at some point. Probably in the near future. God knows you’d absolutely humiliated yourself in front of the fucking Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne,. Twice, in fact. You didn’t even want to think about the display you’d shown for Bruce Wayne or Damian Wayne.

You didn’t really know what to do with your slightly obsessive crushes. And you could see it definitely being a problem in the near future.

…You decide that what you do in your private time is absolutely nobody but your business, and keep watching. It’s a mix of bitter spite and genuine mental breakdown levels of desperation that leads you to that decision. You feel like you’re a child with their toy being taken away, and it’s making you mad. And sad too. Even if you shouldn’t do this anymore, you still want to keep the habit. You’d mentioned before your creature comforts were one of the few things that kept you going. And while you were mostly very good at not being the jealous, heinous creature you really are, you knew you wouldn’t be giving this up.

They’d have to tear your gossip channels from your cold dead palms. You weren’t giving them up, not without a fight at least. Unfortunately for you, the universe seemed determined to wrestle away literally everything you loved.

Guilt’s for tomorrow. Today is for ice cream and purposefully ignoring everything. Speaking of which, you can not remember the last time you had a good Ben & Jerry’s. They were so expensive these days, as all groceries were. You simply couldn’t afford it. The Waynes, of course, had multiple tubs in multiple different options. Alfred had seemed delighted that you’d taken the ice cream, for which reasons you could not perceive.

Oh, yeah! His name was Alfred. Very butler-y. You’d remember it this time, he was a very nice man. And he called you ‘young miss’ which earned him points. He also didn’t seem to hate you on sight or treat you like a two-headed freak, like some of the other people in this household. Not naming names. Yeah, fuck that noise, Damian Wayne obviously has issues and it’s much less attractive in real life.

The woman drones on, and your eyes flick to your phone. Yup, she’s still yapping. It’s not like you don’t appreciate Dick’s abs or anything, it’s just that you think she might’ve been talking about this one specific photo for over half an hour now. Lady should get a hobby. Wait, wait, this is her job. Maybe you should start a podcast where you rant about the Wayne’s exercise regimes. It seems to be quite a lucrative field.

You shriek when the door slams open, nearly tumbling backwards off the bed. Hands manage to grip the bedcovers before you tip over, not making a complete fool of yourself. As it goes, you lose your spoon to the carpet. Bits of cookie dough spread over the floor in a divine sacrifice. And you lose your sanity to the man standing in the doorway. To be fair, he looks just as confused as you feel.

You blink at the physically perfect form of Dick Grayson and then turn your head to the TV to look at the other physically perfect form of Dick Grayson.

…You really wish you had a good explanation for this.

He mutters out your name, lips parted. Dick Grayson seems absolutely shocked to find you here. His eyes flick around the room and eventually land on the TV. Said baby blues widen to the size of saucers when the reporter makes a really, really unnecessary comment.

“And in news that broke the hearts of both ladies and gentlemen everywhere in Bludhaven, Dick Grayson has announced he will be returning to Gotham to assist his family in this difficult time. My cousin in the Blud is probably crying right now. There’s no ass out there quite like his, and there’s no replacement for Bludhaven’s favourite young rich bachelor,” she winks at the camera, and then the shot of his toned stomach phases forward to take up the entire screen.

Well, there’s a lot to say about that. First of all, fuck. Second of all, shit. Third of all, she really couldn’t have said that part about Dick coming back to Gotham sooner? Perchance, before you’d found yourself in this situation?

You said you weren’t that lucky, you meant it.

“But still, ain’t that lucky for us Gothamites? I myself have spent a lot of time on Dick’s Tiktok and Instagram, and his acrobatic videos have been used in a lot of my personal-”

You snatch the remote from the sheets and pause it right there. The silence is tense. You wait for him to say something, but he just stares at you. Completely stunned, mouth-catching flies. You want to pull the covers up and hide under them, but you don’t think that’d make him leave.

“I couldn’t find my room,” you finally manage to say. It’s the worst excuse you’ve ever heard, sounds like a complete lie. And yet, unfortunately, it is the truth.

Dick’s eyes drift to the TV, which you still haven’t unpaused. You can’t tell if it would be worth it, just to get rid of his golden brown abs staring at you judgementally, even if you’d have to deal with the extra embarrassment of the dialogue over them. Maybe if you muted the TV? It wouldn’t make up for the insult of his paparazzi photos on a widescreen.

It takes you even longer to come up with an excuse for… that.

“I was checking the news about last night,” you continue, the panic in you rising like a tea kettle left on the stove for too long. You might start shrieking like one too.

You don’t think he believes you. He looks down at the Beatles shirt you’re wearing. You know what he’s going to say before he does, but you still dread it.

“You’re wearing my clothes,” he mutters, his voice awed.

You want to say, ‘Nooo! No, no, no! Don’t do this to me, damn it! Not anymore! No more, please! It’s enough, enough suffering! This is genuinely ridiculous, damn you!’ but instead you reply with a shaky, “…Didn’t have any of mine.”

Also, you’ve been huffing Eau de Dick Grayson? That’s definitely in character for you. You want to beat your own head in with a stick.

“And I couldn’t find my room, and uh, thought this one wasn’t being used,” you continue, daring a glance back at him. He still looks completely stumped.

“It wasn’t,” he answers, but it sounds like he’s a thousand miles away.

You know, Dick Grayson was supposed to be a lot more charming than this. You’re almost proud you managed to stun the man into near speechlessness. Almost, almost. Almost not going to kill yourself once he leaves.

If he leaves. He doesn’t look like he’s getting up. You eye the gap between you and the door. Your animal brain is telling you to just run for it. But Dick has Olympic level athletics, and you don’t doubt he could catch you if you ran. Would he try though? That’s the deciding factor here.

He doesn’t seem like he’s actually going to fucking do anything though. He just keeps staring, like if he looks for long enough, it’ll all start to make sense. Which, you wish.

“Do you know where my room is? I couldn’t… remember…”

He nods, instead staring at his own abs on the TV.

“Can you take me to my room?”

He nods again. Still doesn’t look back at you.

“…Mr. Grayson?” you say, and almost immediately regret it. ‘You’ wouldn’t have used his last name, even though you might’ve. ‘You’ had been a casual person, as far as you could tell. That was the kindest way you could say it, at least.

His head snaps to you. He somehow looks more confused. You wonder if you should pinch him or something, god knows you’ve done your fair share of pinching yourself recently.

“Yes, right, sorry. Let’s… go,” he gives you a cheery smile, shaking his head, but it seems quite strained. You’re probably matching. This is the most humiliating moment of your life, and of course, it’s with the most beautiful man on earth right beside you.

A break. You want a break.

The two of you quietly shuffle out of the room, and when he guides you forward, you follow him obediently. Your head naturally bows, shame making it hard to look at him. You stare at the wooden floors as you walk. Watching it shine in the morning light that filters through the windows.

Eventually, he comes to a stop in front of a door that has obviously been avoided. Though it’s as clean as every other inch of this house, there are no marks in the rug from the door opening and closing. And even then, it seems… well, it sounds silly, but the door seems sad to you. Too many things seem sad to you these days.

Your thoughts must show on your face because Dick clears his throat and gives you a worried look. Is it rude to say you’re sick of those sorts of looks? That they just make you feel sick and burdened these days? It’s not like you could bring your family back from the dead, or convince your cheating boyfriend to not be a piece of shit. It was out of your hands.

“…Are you alright?” he asks you, blue eyes sincere. You tilt your head to the side.

“No?” you say, but it sounds more like a question. No, you are not alright. Yes, you will be okay. It’s the only option. It’s one of your rules. You have to be okay. You just have to.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

You almost laugh.

“No,” this time your voice is firm, confident. Dick seems like he’s going to push it, but something in your eyes makes him stop. You give him a forced smile and say goodbye, closing the door gently in his face. Once you do, you crouch down and once again, press your face to your knees. Then you press your hands to your mouth and let out a scream that had been bubbling up for a while. After that, you feel you can live with the humiliation that is your existence without jumping out the three-story-height window.

You stand up, turning to the room. The first thing you notice about it is that there’s dust in here. Same as Dick’s old room. Now that you think about it, Alfred doesn’t seem the type who’d randomly leave certain rooms uncleaned, so it must be something he does out of respect for the tenants of Wayne Manor. Or maybe the old you requested it? God knows.

Sitting down on the old bed, your eyes rove around the room. It’s well decorated, as the rest of the manor is, but you can’t see anything that would make it your room. There’s none of the novels you’d collected from the used books store, no dorky little items you impulse bought, no pictures of your family. The apartment hadn’t had those either.

‘You’- she- seemed like a ghost to you. While you’d often felt like you’d barely been alive, simply going through the motions, this girl seemed like she hadn’t even been conscious half the time she was doing it. It made your stomach swim, your face pulls taught.

While you’d had few things holding you afloat, it’d been enough to keep you alive. Molly, your co-workers, the need to work so as to not starve to death. She hadn’t had anything like that. No liferaft. You’d been sputtering and gasping your way through life, and she’d been drowning. Maybe already dead, at the bottom of the sea, hair tangling with the seaweed.

This room feels like a coffin, and this manor like a cemetery. It makes you physically sick.

Showing off your fickle-mindedness, you realise that despite this being the Wayne manor filled with all your idols, you actually don’t want to fucking be here. You need space to clear your head, and the creaking floorboards that echo down the creepy hallways just don’t offer that. The atmosphere at your too-modern, too-minimalist apartment is leagues better than the atmosphere at this gorgeous old house which you’d usually love spending hours getting lost in.

Usually. Unfortunately, this place was more suffocating than the workplace when you knew you were about to get fired again. And you weren’t getting paid to stay here, so why the fuck would you?

Once you realise you’ve decided to run, you’re quick to pack up your shit. There’s not much in the room you need. A pair of sneakers, because you would rather die than put those heels on again. And you’ll grab some shirts because they’re comfy and remind you of home. Hopefully, it’ll make everything… grate… a little less. All of this is thrown in an old ratty backpack, which is then tossed over your shoulder. Shoes slipped on, and tapped against the floor so they’re on comfortably. And then you’re ready. Ready as you’ll ever be. With one hand on your phone, you take a peek outside the door. Coast is clear.

You press call for ‘The Wicked Witch of the West’. Jeanine picks up on the third ring.

“Hello, Jeanine Ryans here,” she says, her voice all business.

“Jeanine, I need an evac, stat,” you whisper to her, creeping down the hallway of the manor. The floor is unbelievably creeky, so it’s pretty fucking difficult to be stealthy about it.

“…What?”

“Get me out of this fucking manor, please,” you beg, now going down the stairs. Almost out, almost out.

“Right, on it. I’ll have a car outside in ten minutes if that’s alright?” Jeanine replies, immediately on the case. It almost makes you cry. You know she’s being paid for this, and very desperate for the job for some reason, but it’s still a hail mary that you are so grateful for.

“Thank you, thank you so much,” you say, turning a corner and-

Oh, fuck. Damian Wayne glares down at you, green eyes cataloguing every single guilty piece of you in existence. He sees your hand tighten around your backpack, hears Jeanine telling you not to worry through your phone, and probably notices the way your eyes desperately flicker behind him to the door. To your goal, to the exit to this labyrinth.

You can practically hear the wind blowing, see the tumbleweed drift by.

And then, he moves past you, twisting his body so no part of it touches you. There’s a moment where your brain freezes, something spicy smelling (cinnamon, maybe?) flowing past you, and by the time you turn around, he’s gone. Your deer-in-headlights tensed-shoulders look falls, leaving you confused in the foyer. He didn’t even say a word to you. You felt like you just got passed over by a boss from a Dark Souls game.

…Well, you’ll take the wins where you can find them! Quickly, you hurry out the front door, skittering down the steps like some sort of rat. It’s a long walk to the gates, and you don’t really know how to open them to let the car in, so you decide to take your time and enjoy the walk. The early morning dew apon the clean-cut blades of grass glint and sparkle, the gravel on the road crunches under your technically-not-stolen sneakers, and even if it’s a miserable life, it’s a pretty day. From the hill the manor lives upon, you can see Gotham’s tall skyline, cloaked in its characteristic fog.

Eventually, you find yourself in front of the gate, where you can see Jeanine waiting with a black car on the otherside. There’s a big green button next to the side gate, which you press, and it clicks open. There’s a moment where your neck tingles, and you glance up at the camera pointed down at you. The red flickering light beside it holds your attention. You can see your bedraggled reflection in its lense.

Shaking your head, you move on, greeting Jeanine. She gives you a quick bow of the head and opens the door for you. You hike the bag over your shoulder, give the Wayne manor one final, lingering look and then you step into the car. Jeanine starts speaking to you about some future appointments you have, and you’re too tired to understand a word of what she says. She realises you’re not processing anything she says, and hands you a pair of headphones with a wire adapter.

You could kiss her right then and there. You don’t because that’d be weird, but you definitely think about it. Headphones on, you watch the rolling hills and luxurious manors turn into highways and honking traffic, to finally the upside part of town which was now apparently where you lived.

Eventually you find yourself being delivered in front of your swanky new apartment. With a passing goodbye, Jeanine tells you that she’ll be busy for the rest fo the day so if you need anything to call the number on the card she hands you. You tuck it in your pocket, certain you’ll lose it like every other business card you’ve ever been handed.

The elevator ride up to your room is contemplative. The music is boring, your reflection is bedraggled and tired, and the gentle feeling of gravity under your feet tugs at you. You rock slightly when you finally reach your floor. The doors open, but you don’t make any move to leave. They shut again, and you’re left staring daggers at your mirrored self.

You’d woken up, still here. It wasn’t a dream. It was reality. And more than that, it seemed more and more like you’d be staying in this reality. You didn’t think you could go home. Sure you were rich but… but your home. Your few things you’d managed to save. Your meagre group of friends and your hard-sought job. It made you nauseous. Where had you lost it all? Why were you here now? Why did you keep having to lose everything?

You manage to snap yourself out of it before someone else calls the elevator. Striding out of the space, you look to the right where you remember your apartment coming from. It’s not hard to find the unit, as there are only three on the entire floor. Rich people.

The door closes with a satisfying thud behind you, and you nearly melt with exhaustion.

This apartment is the ninth circle of hell for you. Scrambling around on your knees, you’re desperate to find the damn phone that won’t stop ringing. You can’t understand where the sound is coming from.

Under your bed? You shine your other’s phone’s light under it. Nope. Behind the dresser? Nada. You search inside the drawers and then peek inside the fancy lamp. Absolutely nothing. You’re ready to tear your hair out when you spot something… odd.

There’s… You think there’s something stuck in your floorboards. You dig at the space with your fingernails and the piece of wood pops open. Inside is… a cardboard box. An awfully familiar cardboard box, actually. The sight of your Mum’s old keepsake box makes you cry out with joy, lifting it from its little enclave. You’d lost a lot in the past few days but at least the old you knew how to keep your family’s stuff safe.

This apartment looks brand new. And apparently the past you dug into it to hide her stuff. You can’t really judge, you have a hidey-hole back at your apartment. It was a brick that had already been loose in the wall, so it didn’t feel quite as criminal as this.

The ringing is coming from inside the box. When you pull the lid up, you find a keepsake box a little different from yours. While yours only ever had your family’s old passports and photo albums, this one had a sleek phone sitting on top of all the mementos. It’s an exact copy of the phone on your bed- or well, it would be, if you hadn’t dropped it.

Two phones? This bitch was greedy. And so are you, eagerly sweeping the expensive item into your gremlin hands. Your thieving high is instantly quashed when you see who’s calling.

Of all fucking… George.

You roll your eyes before hanging up, tossing the phone to the side as you start rifling through the old keepsake box. You flip through family photo albums and lovingly cradle old stuffies. The phone buzzes. You ignore it. You find one of your mother’s old necklaces, and because you’re desperate for anything that can ground you, slip it over your head. The cool heart locket rests just under your collarbone, and you clutch it with one hand as you keep exploring. The phone keeps buzzing. It’s only almost half an hour later when you realise something about this is strange.

Why is George… not blocked? You glance down at the vibrating object like it’s radioactive, a despairing frown pulling at your face. Cautiously, you pick it up, making sure not to open the notifications lest it tell George you read any of his messages.

He’s… apologising for not being there for your birthday. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. And it’s not even a proper apology, it’s one of those ‘I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings’ bullcrap. He keeps spamming you, and eventually, you realise that he’s not going to just stop.

You decide to nip this in the bud quickly because even remembering his cheating face makes you feel like throwing up.

‘You’: Why are you contacting me?

‘George <3’: Seriously? Look, I’m sorry I wasn’t there yesterday. I was busy, you know that.

Stupidly, you reply:

‘You’: ‘No, seriously, why are you contacting me? I’m done with you.’

You wonder how you ever loved this jackass. Even if he was obviously more of a jackass here, than where you’d come from. He was just better at pretending there. You keep scrolling, ignoring the new texts that pop up. Your stomach sours at the number of texts he himself had ignored, of the amount of ‘sorry baby, can’t come tonight’, the begging, the pleading.

No, he wasn’t worse at pretending. He just didn’t care.

You wonder if this could have been you, further along down the line. Abuse happens slowly, right? Like a frog in a pot. You’d have forgiven and forgotten, written away his worse behaviours till you couldn’t anymore. Till you couldn’t leave, till you were trapped.

You think George Lancaster would’ve tried to. He would’ve isolated you from everyone you had left if he hadn’t screwed up and got caught.

You realise now there were a lot of red flags in your relationship with George. Molly always hated him and he hated her. He’d constantly complain about how much time you spent with her, spamming you with texts when you went out.

You were only… only two days since you’d actually broken up with him. Which was sort of crazy to think about. You feel like you’ve lived eons since then. Like that one traumatic incident aged you thirty years. Anyway, you still hadn’t processed the whole George thing. You’d been sort of busy fighting for your life.

‘George’: I’m here, can you at least open the door so we can talk face to face?

Freeze. A knock sounds, and your head snaps up to the front door. You don’t move. You just wish it away. The knocking only gets louder and louder.

You feel like a dumb girl in a horror movie as you walk towards the door, unlocking it and creaking the knob open. George Lancaster stands on the other side, and before you can slam it in his face, he grabs you by the arm and yanks you out of the door. And then he’s pulling you to the elevator, even as you try and get your bearings, get yourself away from him.

“You can’t just ignore me like this,” George says, pissed off to high hell, “We’re going to miss the reservation I booked specifically for you. I told you it was happening today and-”

There’s white noise between your ears, you can’t hear what he’s saying. Told you? It wasn’t in any of the texts. He’s still talking even as the elevator dings, even as he shoves you in a white sports car that’s half parked on the curb. Even as he drives his way through Gotham’s streets, he won’t fucking shut up.

Why are you letting this happen to you? Why aren't you fighting back, wrenching yourself from his grasp? He takes you into a restaurant, one so upscale that normally you wouldn’t be able to get in for months, and your head snaps from staring socialites to watching politicians to gawking celebrities. You have the eyes of the world on you right now, and they’re all watching George yell at you.

And you can’t find your voice.

It's like a scab you can't stop picking at. Like you think this is what you deserve or something. And it's not. You know it's not. And yet you follow obediently, chastised and embarrassed, as he pulls you through the restaurant. When he picks a table in the centre of the room, you don’t protest. When he chooses your meal for you, even though it’s not to your taste, you don’t protest.

Looking at George, scrolling lazily on his phone, your hands clench against the table. They’re sweating, shaking, nails digging into your palms.

You… you didn’t have to break up with him again, did you? You realised it earlier, but you didn’t- it didn’t really sink in. Your first breakup with George Lancaster was a miserable traumatic experience, and it had been in the solitary streets of Gotham’s Narrows. This one, this one would be seen by literally everyone.

Nauseous. You feel so damn nauseous, your mouth dry as you swallow down bile. This was ridiculous. You couldn’t stand seeing his face. Was he texting her right now? God, did she even know? You’d just stormed out that night, running from what you’d seen.

George had chased after you. Had he left her there? Your stomach churned at the idea. You had to hate her on principle but, well, you also had to sympathise with her. Contradictions, that was the average you. You didn’t want to help this random girl. Didn’t want to have to ever think of her again.

…Staring at George, a definitively awful person, you can’t do it. Can’t just leave her to it.

“I’m breaking up with you,” you say.

“What?” George replies, not even looking up from his phone.

“I’m breaking up with you!” you shout. It’s not even intentional, just a result of being pushed too far, of breaking too easily.

The restaurant goes quiet. Guess you’re up for another scandal then. Whatever, it wasn’t like you would’ve lasted much longer anyway. This was all too complicated for your recently traumatised mind to handle. And it was just too damn stupid to bother with anyway. All of this was fucking stupid.

You included.

Just pull the bandaid off, right? You could already see how this version of you had so many scandals to her name. You probably should start giving a shit. Or at least trying to. You don’t think you want to, though.

George puts his phone down face down on the tablecloth, giving you a calm look. That slightly pitying stare activates something in your brain you didn’t really know was there. It’s a type of rage you haven’t known since you were a kindergartner and one of the other girls said you couldn’t play princesses. Since your first service job where your manager felt you up. Just pure, petty, anger. The type of anger ready to burn the world down as long as it burns whoever pissed you off as well. He opens his mouth, probably to say something condescending, and your hand whips out and snatches his phone.

“Hey!” George says instead, his eyes widening.

You turn the phone back on. Hm, passcode. You flip it around and use facial recognition to open it. Despite the fact that George wears the most comically shocked expression, with saucer-wide eyes and a mouth open to catch flies, it unlocks. Nice.

“Hey! What are you doing?” George demands, reaching over the table for his phone.

You twist away from his reach. Password. You flip the phone, and despite George’s comically shocked expression, it still unlocks. He shouts again when it does, probably realising that you might be taking this seriously. That he might actually be in trouble. That his sugar mummy might not take too kindly to the numerous texts to other women on his phone.

…You really can’t believe you’re a sugar mummy. And for George of all people. What a horrendous waste of money, it’s fucking tragic.

He’s got the texts with someone known as ‘Pizza Hut’ pulled up, with some very flirtatious messages. You scroll up furiously, ducking under George as he gets up from the table and tries to get the phone. Still, backing up, the sight of a very poorly shot dick pic of George’s has you grimacing. Your focus on the picture, trying to decide whether his penis looked so unappealing before you’d learnt of his betrayal, has you distracted when one of the servers come around.

And, well, shirt, meet soup. Very, very hot soup. Everyone? Meet a screeching, klutzy moron.

George takes the chance to advance on you, snatching his phone from you. He doesn’t even seem to care you’re currently getting third-degree burns. The sting scorches through the thin fabric of your dress shirt, burning your skin. George grabs you again, his grip harsh enough this time you know it will bruise, and you can’t really say why you do what you do at that moment.

Your aunt used to have a chihuahua. It was an ugly, grumpy thing. She’d rescued it late into its life, and it had been treated poorly beforehand. It didn’t like to be touched at all and used to run from anyone who tried. And if you tried to touch it? Cornered it?

Well, of course, it started biting.

George’s howl is the most satisfying thing you’ve ever heard. His squeal of “bitch!” might be even more so. He slaps you away from him, and the sound echoes in the restaurant. Your face stings. When you land ass first in the puddle of still-too-hot soup, you wonder if you might try and bite him again. You don’t think you even broke the skin, considering you can’t taste blood. The other patrons stare on in genuine horror, like they’ve never seen a messy breakup before. One woman raises a hand to her mouth, and gasps-

You find yourself staring up at a furious George, one with a menace in his eyes you’ve never seen before. You wonder, idly, if he’s ever hit you before. Well, not you, but ‘you’. You realise now that he has the capacity for it, that he probably always did.

“What the fuck!?” he hisses, angry eyes darting from side to side, “Biting me?! In fucking public?! Have you lost it, you crazy bitch?! And you got my phone fucking soaked in soup!”

“Did you buy it?” you ask, wiping your mouth with your sleeve to get George’s dirty taste out of your mouth.

He blinks, confused, thrown off by your question, “Huh?”

“Did you buy that phone?” you repeat, your staring starting to turn into a furious glare.

You don’t think he did. Your George had never been able to afford those sorts of things, he’d been as broke as you were. Of course, you’d seen him lust over those items, but you’d always managed to convince him not to go into debt over silly things like sports cars and fancy phones. And even then, you’d been the one to buy him a PS5.

He looks down at the phone and back at you, and you can see his jaw tick.

“I bought it. That’s mine.”

“It was a gift. You’re going to be such a bitter bitch to take back everything you gave me? Gonna leave me out on the fucking street?” he says, spittle flying with angry words.

This was escalating fast. Maybe before you’d have been cowed by his words, but you were genuinely off your rocker by now and were very much willing to tango with this bastard. Like yes, he did terrify you, but so did everything else. You could handle this much at least. You weren’t ready to back down.

“And if I did? What then George? What could you even fucking do?” you throw back, voice rising to match his.

“It’s not your money either, it’s theirs, you little leech!” says the pot.

“Does it matter?” replies the kettle.

Pushing to your feet, you find George without another answer. He stands between you and the exit. With the plain murderous rage on his face, you think he’ll try to grab you again if you run past. He wouldn’t bite you back, but he might slap you or something. So instead, like any good coward does, you run straight to the girl’s bathroom. It hasn’t failed you yet, and you doubt it will today.

You shove into the bathroom, past a woman doing her makeup. Her head bobs up and down as she takes in your seemingly infamous face, and your stained shirt. You stride as far away from her as possible, darting into the last bathroom stall and sitting on the closed toilet lid. You pull your knees to your chest and hiss out a sound of frustration when that presses the sticky liquid against your chest and pants. Not your brightest idea, but you were sort of running on fumes right now.

The bathroom stall is extremely clean. One thing you were quickly realising about rich people is they didn’t have to suffer shitty public bathrooms. You didn’t think they deserved it. Like customer service jobs, and traffic, they built character.

What were you doing? Right, trying not to cry. You’re doing much better than yesterday. Still, sitting on top of the toilet’s closed lid, your phone pressed to your face, you wouldn’t say you’re doing ‘good’.

But because you knew George was too much of a pussy to ever enter the woman’s bathrooms, you refuse to move a single inch. You don’t want to go out there. At all. At all, at all. You’d tried to call Jeanine, but she hadn’t answered. Some P.A. she was. You still weren’t going to fire her. Then you remember that she told you she was going out later, and that she’d left a card with you. Digging through your pocket, you decide it’s finally time to die when you realise you lost the card somewhere along the line.

So, she wasn’t going to come save you as your knight in shining armour.

You can’t remember Molly’s number. Who did these days? That was your phone’s job. So you were left with… this. You were left with this. Four blocked numbers and a third had sent an automatic reply because he was driving. Alfred was probably busy. Weren’t butlers always very busy?

…Rich people weren’t often very busy. They had butlers and assistants to do all their chores. You unblock all four of the Waynes that you have on your phone.

The first thing you notice is the amount of texts between ‘you’ and Dick. Scrolling and scrolling, you find most of them are him checking up on you and one-word replies from the old you. He’s friendly and accepting, even when you respond in cruel and aggressive tones. The further back you scroll, the kinder your replies are. At one point it seems like the two of you had a good relationship.

You check the other chats. Tim’s message log is filled with coffee requests sent back and forth between you, Damian’s is completely empty, and Bruce’s has had no response from your phone in years. But eventually, you scroll back far enough that you find an actual conversation instead of just ‘Call Alfred’ repeated every few days.

‘You’: I miss them.

‘Bruce Wayne’: I know. I miss them too.

You press the back button, sighing. That felt like you’d seen something you shouldn’t have, like you’d peeked into someone’s diary. Which was unbelievably stupid. All of this is unbelievably stupid. You should just leave, you should just be brave. Two days ago you faced off against one of your worst fears, but today you couldn’t even handle George Lancaster.

You want someone to rescue you. You know no one will unless you ask. It makes you choke on your own self-disgust. This is the second time in one day. God, maybe you should just do it yourself. It’s not like you couldn’t pay for your own Uber.

And still, you find yourself clicking on a name and begging. Skin crawling, you type and retype the text probably a hundred times. You go from long apologies to begging to rants you never intended to send in the first place. Tap, tap, tap, and then you delete, delete, delete.

What you settle on is simple.

‘You’: hey. can you come pick me up? thx

Maybe a bit too simple. You cross your arms and tuck yourself in the good ol’ fetal position. You feel like you’ve spent half your time holding yourself like this the past three days.

‘Dick Grayson’: I’ll be there in five.

MASTERLIST - NEXT

[messenger-of-babel]

Always Late

Summary: Batman was late when you needed him the most, but he refused to let it happen again. (Batfamily x sibling!reader)

Word Count: 4.5K (This was supposed to be a quick fic 💀)

Notes: BIG AUTHOR NOTE INCOMING Before anyone comes for me- I know this was supposed to be a day for Chris. I'm just feeling a touch sick but still want to get a fic out, and I'm currently not able to churn out and go through his, so I'll write some Chris later! Instead I wanted something else, consider it a change up to shake some life back into the theme. I also rambled hella long on this one, so strap in, it's long and the plot got lost in the maze of my mind. I had to shuffle things around and it just kept growing and growing, oh my god so I hope it makes sense to everyone still. Clark caemo, some (very??) OOC villain work cause I forgot some of my original plot and villains so begging on my knees for forgiveness fr. GRAPHIC VIOLENCE/ TORTURE DESCRPTION FOR SOME AREAS. I should have made this two parts but I messed up and made just one massive fic. Was supposed to be batfam x reader but it started feeling more like bruce x reader hahaha. RIP my sleep schedule please reap the benefits of my labour. 😭

Again I was originally here to be a resi blog but I can't help writing for DC after a day of reading comics. On that topic I actually finished collecting Tom Taylor's run at #118, my store held #119 for me so I get to read that as a reward after the hell that will be my Monday.

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When you were taken, it caused a widespread panic among Gotham.

Tabloids across the city wrote about the latest missing person, this time none other than the latest member of billionaire Bruce Wayne's family. The Gotham Gazette had been running articles about you for months already, including the scandal that had come with it. Your dirty laundry and past had been aired for the entire city to read and speculate upon. Whether Bruce had just adopted you out of pity, sympathising with the way that you had lost your parents the same way he had. Gossip about it could all be a ploy for him to expand his influence in Gotham, after the riches and estate that your family had left you behind in their untimely death. The city was thrown into chaos from the death of your parents, both of them from founding Gotham families and well-established lawyers. It was shaken more once the Wayne had taken you into his household, and now it was all but alight as you vanished.

Fingers pointed in every which way, your disappearance marking the fourth among affluent families in Gotham. Accusations had even been hurled at Bruce, claiming that he had killed you in order to gain your assets and the other missing people were to establish an alibi. After all, Bruce Wayne had no alibi for the night that you went missing.

But he had an alibi.

Bruce reflected upon that fact for three days already, while he tore his hair out trying to find you. He had been out in the city, patrolling as usual. The disappearances were the latest case, and he was determined to stop them before they continued. He had been so involved in the case, standing so close to the evidence that he didn't even consider the option that he himself would be affected, or consider the perpetrator might targe the Waynes. he hadn't expected to get a call from Alfred a little past midnight, the butler wheezing painfully into the receiver.

Blood freezing in his veins he had come home to an empty house, windows on the third story smashed in. Alfred was slumped by the phone, its sleek body hanging off the hook. Bruce had pulled the cowl off without a second thought, cradling the older man's head in his lap with shaky hands. He had relaxed slightly when there was a steady pulse under his fingers, and the tension eased further when the older man had opened his eyes.

"Alfred," Bruce had sighed out, moving the old man from his lap to against the wall, hand keeping him upright. "Are you okay-"

"They took them." came the old man's mumbled reply, and for a second Bruce's jaw just hung there.

"What do you mean?" he asked, heart thudding painfully against his ribs, panic rising once more.

"They came through the window, cut the lights. I pretended to be unconscious to use the phone line, but they came back. Cut it shortly after I rang you." the older man said, looking up with remorseful eyes. "I'm so, so sorry, Mr. Wayne." he said forlornly. "I couldn't stop them."

Bruce looked down; jaw tensed. "It wasn't your fault." he said firmly, trying to quell the despair radiating off the old man.

"They took them kicking and screaming. I could hear them the entire time, but I couldn't do anything I-"

"Alfred." Bruce said sternly. "Alfred it's okay. Let me handle it, you go make some tea." he said, helping the old man stand up.

"Tea, yes, yes that's right..." the butler murmured to himself, hand to his head. "It's been a while since you asked me for tea, sir."

"It's not for me." Bruce said, pulling the cowl back on. "It's for you. make yourself some tea and we'll patch you up. Take it easy tonight, wait for the shock to wear off."

Alfred looks at him, hesitating, but eventually nods. "We, sir?"

Bruce hums, fists at his side. "Yes. This case has escalated. It's time to request help."

He keeps his voice level as he walks away, but Alfred notes the way that he turns the corner, and the anger put into his stride.

When he gets to the cave he wastes no time, calling in everyone he can think of. His chest feels tight, breath short as his vision swims. Every signal he can send he does, the blurring in his eyes seeping into his mind too. He cradles his head in his hands, trying to calm it but to no avail. It's only when the ringing of the Batcomputer cuts through the fog that he is able to look up, shaking fingers hitting the accept call button.

"Batman?" comes the crackly voice of Nightwing, and the fog begins to clear slightly.

"Nightwing." he says back gruffly, voice hoarse.

"About time, you were making people pretty worried, you know." Dick chides, and there's the sound of yapping in the background. "What's the brief? What's happened?"

"Kidnapping." he says, voice thick. "Broke into the manor. Alfred is likely to be concussed, but it shouldn't be too serious. He's making tea, Robin is out on the other side of the city tonight. Red Robin is with you, isn't he?"

There's more shuffling on the other end before Dick responds. "Yeah, he's been helping in Bludhaven, he came last night."

"Bring him. Bring Oracle too. Everyone...come home." he murmurs, hands shaking as he tries to think clearly.

"Bruce, is everything okay with you?" Dick comes in, concern evident.

"Fine. I need people back immediately. Why?" he huffs back, rubbing the spots from his eyes with his fingers.

"Because we've all been trying to call you for the last few minutes. This is the first time you've picked up."

Bruce takes a deep breath, exhaling softly. He hadn’t realised how badly he had spaced out. "It's an emergency. They...they’re gone. They need to come home."

"The new kid?" Dick breathes. "Wait, you mean-"

Bruce nods even though he knows his eldest cannot see him. "Gone. Now come back and come back tonight." he ends the call before Dick can say anything else, and his tired eyes scan the monitor filled with a string of outgoing distress calls and an equally large number of missed ones. In his haze he had pressed every com line he had. He had pinged Jason, he had pinged Dick. Hell, he had even pinged the League and Clark, who hadn't even bothered to call for clarity, his response status just reading, 'On my way'.

He held his head in his hands, breaths laboured.

Bruce had held his own reservations when adopting you. He knew about the media uprising that it would cause, the rumours that were sure to fly. He had known what kind of mental state that would put you in, how it would angle you in a whole new world of cameras, but he couldn't help himself. He had seen you while in the suit, and maybe he had taken you in to make himself feel better. For not catching the person who had killed your parents, arriving too late. He had been training for this his entire life, it was his entire mission in Gotham, yet he couldn't stop the very crimes that had put him on this path.

If he had been faster maybe he could have saved your parents, disarming the man with the knife before it plunged into the chest of your father. Maybe he could have arrived faster so that he could have caught the offender that robbed your mother before giving her the same treatment and fleeing into the night. Instead, he was only there fast enough for him to hear you scream as your parents collapsed to the floor. He was there as you cried and shook them and tried to stop the blood spilling through your fingers, but you were unsure where to start. After all, how can someone make a decision between stopping the flow seeping from their father’s chest and the one from their mother’s throat?

He had been there to pull you away, was there to catch the last dying light of your father as he stroked your cheek before making eye contact with Bruce. "Look after my kid." he had whispered, something Bruce had nearly missed under all your screaming. Bruce pulled you away while he called for the GCPD, and from one father to another, he made sure to keep that promise.

Your relationship had been rough, clearly distraught at the way you lost your parents. You were older than he was when the same had happened, but you were still young. You had clung to Bruce the day he said he was going to take you in, and he had managed to soothe you with a soft hand up and down your back. Yet as the tabloids got worse and the gossip began to grow, you began pulling away from him and seeking the comfort of your room instead. He had done his best to protect you from the media, paying money to have articles removed and when that didn't work, he threatened to sue. It made the Gazette pull their head in a bit, but it still failed to be enough. Evidently, as there was now an empty bedroom on the third floor of the east wing.

All he could do was sigh and blink away the images of the children he had hurt, in the name of Robin or otherwise. He had to rub away the death of Jason that he reflected on in sombre moments when he thought no one was looking. He had gotten you into this mess, attached you with his name and all of its subsequent burdens. So, it was his duty to get you back and get you back safe.

Yet three days later, he had nothing.

The cave had been a buzz of activity for all three days, and Bruce, no, Batman, was acting close to a slave driver. Tim and Barbara hadn't left the caves computers in days, Damian and Steph constantly scouring the rooftops. Dick was concerned, hell, everyone was. Even the gruff Jason had been called in, and reluctantly he had answered.

"You find anything?" Dick asked, leaning against the wall with his younger brother. Jason was still suited up, coming back from the patrol around Bristol area. He removes the mask and shakes his hair free, sighing.

"Nothing. Areas come up empty. No sign of 'em."

Dick sighs, running a hand through his hair. "God, there's nothing on my end either. The Docks and all Southside of Gotham are clean, no traces. Any signs pointing to who it could be?"

Jason shrugs, helmet tucked under his arm. "No idea, as it stands, the kid's just gone missing. If Bruce isn't able to scrounge up a lead, I doubt I will. Not my forte. He should give Tim a break and send him out."

"Yeah, like he'll do that. He's got him tied to cave duty." Dick scoffs back. He feels bad, talking like your kidnapping was a causal affair. He didn't treat it like one, his heart stuttering when Bruce had called him in a haze and all shaken. It didn't a genius to see how attached Bruce had gotten to you in such a short amount of time, but sometimes Dick worried that Bruce was projecting his own trauma onto you. But still you were his younger sibling, a part of the family now. He had met you with a warm smile and a gentle hand the day that you moved in, coming in from Bludhaven to make the house a bit more lively while you got settled in. God, he knew what it was like moving in alone into that empty house, with only Bruce and Alfred to warm the halls. He had eaten dinner with you, took you out for walks in the garden when your grief allowed you move more than a few paces. He did his absolute best, and he knew that with time he could be a big brother to you.

Yet you hadn't been given the time, snatched away before Christmas even hit. He doubted you knew that Bruce was the Batman, or that the rest of the family had an interesting array of night lives.

Jason was the same in the way that he hadn't interacted with you much.

Honestly, he was awkward with kids, since the last kid of Bruce's he had met was the devil spawn who spat at him like an angry cat every chance he got. You were thankfully much older and easier to understand, but that still didn’t mean smooth sailing. Jason hated even coming back to the manor, and he and Bruce had been having one of their ongoing fights during the time he took you in, meaning he missed seeing you often. Yet he still talked to Dick (more so that Dick called him to make sure that he was okay) and the older man had seen you plenty. He felt like he knew you from Dick alone, but he wasn't oblivious to your story printed in the newspapers shoved under his apartment door. He pitied you, understood the grief that you must have been going through at the sudden violence that tossed your little world upside down. Sure, you had gone from luxury to luxury, but Gotham was unkind to everyone. it was the same violence that Jason strode to clean off the street, and his heart ached deep down that someone like you had managed to get caught in its claws.

"Do you think it could be the clown?" Dick asks quietly. "He'd do something as ballsy as this."

Jason tenses, thinking for a moment before shaking his head. "Not likely. That bastard likes to make a spectacle of things. No doubt he would have contacted the Bat the second he took the first victim or aired it like some twisted game show. It's not like him to lay quiet."

"So, it's someone else. It's unnatural for Gotham's villains to do something in the dark like this. I mean, it's been three days since they were abducted, and they're the fourth kidnap victim. There hasn't been a ransom note, a demand, a body. Not a peep for any of the captives. It's unnatural."

Jason hums in agreement, but they both jump as Bruce storms through grandfather clock entrance.

Everyone present turns, watching how Clark trails after him. Five sets of eyes watch the livid way the Bat cuts a path through the cave and gets into the batmobile, breaths too anxious to be released. Without a word the car screams out of the cave, and they all turn to Clark. Barbara casts a glance to Tim and then to Dick, who just shrugs, worry deepening on his face.

"What the hell's going on?" Jason growls, pushing off from the wall. Clark turns to face him, dressed in his Superman suit.

"We’ve found them." Clark says, face grim, and Dick shares a look with Jason. However, when Dick meets the eyes of Superman, he can see the flicker of worry in the Kryptonian. "Well let's get going then. Why did he leave alone?" Dick asked, slipping the domino mask back onto his face. Clark opens his mouth to speak but is cut off as Damian steps out behind his broad figure.

"Because it's the League." the younger boy says, green eyes boring in Dick's. "It's grandfather."

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

Bruce drove like his life depended on it, which wasn't fair when it was yours on the line instead. He could see the dots on his monitor indicating that the others were following him, and he had assumed that Clark had proceeded to fill them in. He had asked his old friend to look after the city while he sped towards the outskirts, just in case the League decided to do something while he had his guard on the city lowered. His com crackled to life, radio filling the otherwise silent car.

"Oi." snapped the voice of Red Hood, modulated and grainy. "Don't leave without telling us what's going on. Aren't you the one always spewing that 'feel-no-emotion' bullshit? To not let it cloud your judgement? Cause from the way I see it, you're acting kinda hazy."

"I trusted Clark would fill you in." he says back, voice tense. Red Hood scoffs.

"Yeah, and he did. You called us. You tell us what the hell you want us to help with, otherwise don't bother calling at all. Don't drag us out, get us invested then not let us help when it comes to it. What was your plan, beat the shit out of Ras and taken them back by yourself?"

Bruce falls silent, and there's a slight huff from Jason on the other end.

"Honestly? not the worst plan you've had, and I respect the enthusiasm, but you still should have looped us in. I want to get a hit in too."

Bruce turns his head to the direction of the radio, snapped from his concentration on the road momentarily and it's like Jason can feel his confusion through the commlink.

"Don't give me that silence." he groans. "They're family, aren't they? I'm not opposed to a younger sibling, you know." he huffs irritably. "But do me a favour and control Nightwing, hey? He's looking as coiled as you. You might have to fight him for the first hit."

Bruce doesn’t say anything before the comm cuts off, leaving him in the silence once more and eyes going straight back onto the red dot mapped onto his GPS. You.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

When you awoke the first time, you couldn’t feel anything. Your hands were tied to your ankles behind you, black cloth wrapped around your eyes. what you did know was that you were lying somewhere concrete, face pressed into the dusty cement. You knew that on the day that you woke and they had brough you were, that there were other people thrown in the same cell as you. You also knew that those other people were dead.

You had heard them scream, heard the way that they begged for their lives when they were dragged from the pen you were in. One a day, until you were left alone with no one to talk to. They had all been kidnapped like you, affluent people that you recognised the names and voices of. You had heard some of them at events you parents had hosted and attended, and when you traded names, they had remembered you immediately. You weren't dumb, you knew that you had all been taken here because you were rich. That was the only thing that you had in common with the heiresses and finance brokers that had shared the cells with you, huddled up against the cool metal.

Now the only thing left was you and the stickiness that crept under the bars of your cage, grateful that the blindfold was on so you didn't have to see what it was. At first you thought that you were alone, that your captors had left, but you knew better. You could sense them all around you, quiet and watching. They were like an uncomfortable prickling on your neck, the ghost of fingertips across your skin. Yet the hours and minutes had bled into days, and now you didn’t care if they were there or not.

You knew that they wanted to kill you. They had killed the rest. You had been given small amounts of food and water the first day or two, but today there had been none. Your mouth was dry as you lay on your side, lips cracking with the desire to drink. Your throat felt like sandpaper when you swallowed, and the silence that you were met with when you called out only made your panic and helplessness rise. You had lost the ability to cry, body sluggish. It felt like everything was shutting down, the pain in your stomach unbearable and tongue heavy in your mouth. As the heat crept in and pulled sweat from your unwilling skin, you began wishing that they would kill you.

You supposed that your wish was answered when the creak of your cell signalled one of your silent observers had come for you, and the tug on the ropes binding your limbs together made you lurch forward. You kept your face pressed down, too weak to struggle against them as they dragged you out and gripped your hair, making you shift onto your knees at an awkward angle. For the first time in days, you heard someone speak.

" So, this is Bruce's new...child." Your captor hummed. You could hear the way that their boots scuffed as they walked, coming to stand in front of you. You could faintly feel the swish of fabric, long and tickling the floor. "I wonder if he was planning to hand the title of Robin over so soon.”

Your eyebrows furrow, but your barely functioning brain fails to process what he's saying.

"Are you aware of your family's lineage?" comes the voice from above you, commanding and deep with a hint of something malicious in the undertone, like a coiled snake waiting to strike. “Your real family, the ones who claimed to practice a just and fair law. Not Wayne.”

 You manage to shake your head weakly, grimacing as the image of your parents covered in blood flickered into your mind.

The voice above you tuts. "The sins of the father shall be bestowed upon the son," he recites softly. "And you are to pay the penance. Gotham will be purged, and the bloodlines of the corrupt shall be the first to burn, aware of their sins or not."

You don't even get a chance to ask what he's saying, the words sounding like biblical rambling. A scream is ripped through your throat instead as a sharp hot pain erupts through your shoulder, the sound of your own skin bubbling making you sick. You wail, body aching to thrash but the fatigue and weakness preventing you from doing such. The hands on your shoulders hold you still as the sensation is repeated across your body, stray tears leaking from your eyes despite your dehydrated state. It's only when you feel like you’re about to cross over, embrace the light spilling behind your eyes that you realise that the hands have left your body and that you're lying face down, discarded on the concrete floor.

You can feel the ache all over your body, a stinging and writhing pain that makes your whimper involuntarily. You can now make out that there is sound around you, echoing off the empty walls and causing your head to throb after days of silence.

For Bruce however, the world was silent despite being in the thick of the fight. They had pulled up the abandoned building on the edge of Gotham and Bludhaven, thankfully located by Clark and his x-ray vision after days of searching. He had stormed into the building with Dick, Jason, and Tim on his heels, his hands filled with a shake only the trained eye could determine as rage. The world had dripped into the pulsing cadence of his heartbeat as soon as he saw you, kneeling at Ra’s feet and being held by league assassins. He had hardly any time to process the way that you curled up and into yourself when you were dropped so carelessly, head thudding lifelessly against the floor. Forlorn, he eyed the way your body was covered with cuts and stabs, burns from the red-hot sword still held in the hands of a soldier. He hadn't known when the league had decided to dabble in torture, but Bruce felt like joining that night.

Jason and Tim were dealing with the assassins, the younger male finally freed from desk duty. He didn't know you as well as he would have liked considering that you lived under the same roof as him, but you had been warming up. He had really hoped that you could get along, but now he feared that this was going to push your back into the shell you had just started to crack, and that frustration was evident in the whistling of his bow staff as it cut through the air.

Dick had gone after Ra’s immediately while Batman raced for you, Dicks escrima sticks going for the head. Dick was fast and agile, muscles more tensed than usual as he sent well placed blow after blow. Yet Bruce wasn’t an idiot, he knew the limits of him and his team, and he knew the limits of Ra’s. That's why in what limited time that Dick bought for him he dropped to your side, slicing through your bonds with a batarang and letting your arms and legs fall free from their cramped position behind you. You groan lightly as he cradles you to his chest, weakly crying out as he justles the many wounds. He loosens the blindfold from your eyes, and your blink up at him a few seconds later, squinting against the light.

Your skin is sticky with blood both your own and not, flecked across the apple of your cheeks. He eyes the burns, the warped and rippled skin that blistered angrily and would surely get infected if not treated soon. He observes the many cages set up in the corner, the one he presumes was yours wide open and empty. He feels sick seeing the dead bodies in the other ones, imagining that it could have been you in there, dead like some caged animal for slaughter.

You make a weak whimper when he stands, and he has half a mind to join Nightwing in beating Ras so badly he'd need to use the pit again.

But he doesn’t.

He rises to his feet with you in his arms, and he calls for a retreat. You cry and moan as he hurries out, Jason and Tim covering your exit while Dick flips into the rafters and out of range of the Demon Head. He wants to fight; he wants to put them in their place for hurting his family. But the moment he had met your eyes again, it was like that day in the alleyway. You had seen him as Batman too that day, but as he laid you hurriedly in the back of the batmobile and patched Oracle in to prep the med bay, he knew that something was different from that night.

Because unlike the day you lost your parents, he had made it in time.

[phamapple]

THEY WERE ROOMMATES

When opposites attract, sparks fly. Follow the adorable misadventures of two college students as they go from sworn enemies to head-over-heels in love

Warnings; fluff, fem!reader, kissing, enemies-friends-lovers, mini jealousy moments, Daniela is mentioned like twice, not so slow burn, med student reader, art student manon, uni au, roommates au, reader is a neat freak lmk if I missed anything cuz I think there’s a lot that I missed :P 7.5k WC

You trudged into your dorm room, lugging a heavy suitcase behind you. You were not thrilled about sharing a room with a stranger, but it was a necessary evil. You'd heard horror stories about dorm roommates, but you were determined to make the best of it.

As you entered the room, you were greeted by a messy-haired girl sprawled across the bed, surrounded by art supplies. She looked up at you with a scowl, her eyes narrowing.

"Great, you must be my roommate," she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "I'm Manon."

You raised an eyebrow, taken aback by her attitude. "Nice to meet you, Manon," you said, trying to keep your tone neutral. "I'm Y/n."

Manon snorted, rolling her eyes. "Let me guess. A med major, huh? How original."

You felt a spark of irritation, but you bit back a retort. You didn't want to start off on the wrong foot.

As you began to unpack, Manon barely acknowledged your presence, too busy sketching in her notebook. You tried to make small talk, but she responded with monosyllabic grunts.

It was clear that Manon was not thrilled about sharing a room with you. But you were determined to make the best of it, even if it killed you.

As the days went by, you settled into a routine. Manon would spend most of her time drawing or painting, while you'd study for your med school classes. The tension between you was palpable, but you tried to ignore it.

But despite the rocky start, you began to notice little things about Manon. The way she smiled to herself when she was drawing, the way her eyes sparkled when she talked about art.

And Manon, despite her tough exterior, seemed to be warming up to you. She'd occasionally ask you for advice on her art projects or share her favorite snacks with you.

It was a small start, but you sensed that there might be more to Manon than met the eye.

—

You'd always been a tidy person, and you took pride in keeping your space organized. So, when Manon started to spread her art supplies all over the room, you felt a growing sense of frustration.

At first, it was just a few sketchbooks and pencils scattered across the desk. But as the days went by, the clutter grew. Paints, canvases, and half-finished projects took over the floor, the bed, and even the windowsill.

You tried to be patient, reminding yourself that Manon was an art major and needed space to create. But as the mess grew, so did your annoyance.

One day, as you were trying to study for an exam, you realized that you couldn't even see the surface of your desk anymore. Manon's art supplies had taken over, and you felt like you were drowning in a sea of paper, paint, and glitter.

"Manon, can we talk?" you asked, trying to keep your tone neutral.

Manon looked up from her latest project, a half-finished painting that was taking up most of the floor. "What's up?" she asked, her eyes narrowing slightly.

"It's just...the room is getting really cluttered," you said, trying to choose your words carefully. "I know you need space to create, but I need some space to study."

Manon raised an eyebrow. "You're not exactly the most exciting person to live with," she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "I'm just trying to add some personality to this drab room."

You felt a surge of irritation, but you tried to keep your cool. "I understand that, but can we find a compromise? Maybe we can set up a designated art space for you, and I can have some space to study?"

Manon snorted. "You want to restrict my creativity? No way."

The conversation quickly escalated into a full-blown argument, with both of you shouting over each other. The tension between you was palpable, and it seemed like the room was shrinking by the minute.

As the argument reached its peak, the RA knocked on the door, asking you to keep the noise down. You both glared at each other, still fuming, before Manon stormed out of the room, leaving you to seethe in silence.

The room was still cluttered, and the tension between you and Manon was thicker than ever. You wondered how you were going to survive the rest of the semester with this much animosity between you.

You gazed around the cluttered room, feeling a sense of irritation wash over you. Manon's art supplies were scattered everywhere, making it impossible for you to focus on your studies. You let out a deep sigh and decided to take matters into your own hands.

You started to pick up the scattered art supplies, carefully organizing them into neat piles. As you worked, you couldn't help but feel a sense of satisfaction. The room was starting to look more like a peaceful sanctuary, and less like a chaotic art studio.

As you finished up, you stepped back to admire your handiwork. The room was transformed, with Manon's art supplies neatly organized and out of the way. You let out a sigh of relief and settled back into your chair, ready to focus on your studies.

Just as you were getting into the zone, you heard the sound of the front door opening, followed by the creak of the door to your room. You looked up to see Manon standing in the doorway, a scowl on her face and a bag of groceries in her hand.

For a moment, you just looked at her, taking in the sight of her rumpled clothes and messy hair. She looked like she'd just rolled out of bed, and you couldn't help but wonder what she'd been up to.

Manon's scowl deepened as she caught your eye, and she quickly looked away, her cheeks flushing with a soft pink hue. You raised an eyebrow, intrigued by her sudden shyness.

Without a word, Manon walked over to your desk and dumped the bag of groceries onto the surface. You looked at the pile of snacks in surprise, wondering what she was doing.

As you gazed up at Manon, you saw a flicker of apology in her eyes, but her expression remained stubbornly scowled. "I brought snacks, as an apology for my attitude earlier" she muttered, her voice barely above a whisper.

You felt a surge of surprise at her words, but you quickly pushed it aside. Instead, you smiled at her, a warm, soft smile that you hoped would put her at ease.

"Thanks, Manon," you said, your voice gentle. "That's really sweet of you."

Manon's scowl faltered for a moment, and you saw a glimmer of surprise in her eyes. She seemed taken aback by your warm response, and for a moment, you wondered if you'd misread the situation entirely.

But then Manon's expression hardened again, and she turned away, muttering something under her breath. You watched her go, feeling a sense of confusion wash over you.

What was going on with Manon? You wondered. One minute she was scowling at you, and the next she was bringing you snacks and apologizing. You shook your head, feeling a sense of bewilderment.

As you turned back to your studies, you couldn't help but feel a sense of curiosity about Manon's sudden change of heart. What had brought it on? And what did it mean for your tumultuous relationship?

The questions swirled in your mind as you delved back into your studies, but you couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. Manon's apology had been unexpected, to say the least, and you wondered what other surprises she had in store for you.

—

Manon burst into the room, a mischievous glint in her eye. "Tonight's the night!" she exclaimed, tossing her bag onto the bed.

You looked up from your book, raising an eyebrow. "What's tonight?" you asked, a hint of wariness creeping into your voice.

Manon grinned. "Tonight, we're going out!" she said, her voice dripping with excitement. "We're going to paint the town red, or at least, we're going to try."

You hesitated, unsure if you were ready for a night out with Manon. She had a reputation for being unpredictable, and you weren't sure if you were ready for whatever adventure she had planned.

But Manon's enthusiasm was infectious, and before you knew it, you were swept up in her excitement. "Okay, fine," you said, tossing your book aside. "But if we get into trouble, I'm blaming you."

Manon whooped, pumping her fist in the air. "That's the spirit!" she exclaimed, grabbing your arm and pulling you out of the room.

As you hit the streets, you realized that Manon had no clear plan in mind. She seemed to be making it up as she went along, dragging you from one random location to the next.

You found yourself laughing and joking with Manon, feeling a sense of freedom and release that you hadn't experienced in weeks. It was like you'd left your worries and cares behind, and were just living in the moment.

But as the night wore on, things started to get a little out of hand. Manon convinced you to join her in a karaoke bar, where you proceeded to butcher a rendition of your favorite song. The crowd was merciless, and you found yourself laughing and cringing at the same time.

Next, Manon dragged you to a street food stall, where you sampled some of the most exotic and bizarre foods you'd ever encountered. Some of it was delicious, while other dishes were downright terrifying.

As the night drew to a close, Manon convinced you to join her in a crazy dance party, where you found yourself surrounded by pulsating lights and thumping music. You lost yourself in the beat, feeling a sense of abandon and freedom that you hadn't experienced in years.

It wasn't until the sun started to rise that you realized just how late it was. Manon grinned at you, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Best night ever, right?" she exclaimed, linking her arm through yours.

You couldn't help but laugh, feeling a sense of exhilaration and exhaustion. "Definitely one for the books," you agreed, shaking your head in wonder.

As you stumbled back to the dorm, the sun rising over the horizon, you couldn't help but feel a sense of gratitude towards Manon. She'd pushed you out of your comfort zone, and shown you a side of yourself that you never knew existed.

And as you drifted off to sleep, your head spinning with memories of the night's adventures, you couldn't help but wonder what other surprises Manon had in store for you.

You woke up to the sound of laughter and chatter coming from downstairs. You rubbed the sleep from your eyes, wondering who could be visiting at such an early hour. You tossed off the covers and swung your legs over the side of the bed, deciding that the best time to investigate was when you went to get a glass of water from the kitchen.

As you made your way downstairs, the noise grew louder, and you could tell that Manon was entertaining a guest. You stepped into the living room, and your eyes landed on Manon, who was lounging on the couch with a blonde, curly-haired girl. They both turned to look at you, and you offered a simple "morning" before heading to the kitchen.

As you poured yourself a glass of water, you couldn't help but overhear the conversation between Manon and her friend. The blonde girl was chatting away, asking Manon about her summer plans, and Manon was responding with her usual sarcastic humor. But then, the girl's attention turned to you, and you heard her say, "Who's that cutie? I hope she's up for grabs."

You felt a flush rise to your cheeks as you listened to Manon's response. "She's my roommate," Manon said, her voice firm, "and I'm 90% sure she isn't single." Manon's expression narrowed, and you could sense a hint of protectiveness in her tone.

You stood in the kitchen, frozen, wondering what Manon meant by that statement. Why was she so sure you weren't single? And why did she seem so invested in keeping her friend away from you? You felt a shiver run down your spine as you realized that Manon might be more perceptive than you gave her credit for.

As you stood there, lost in thought, the conversation between Manon and her friend continued. The blonde girl was teasing Manon about being possessive, and Manon was laughing it off, but you could sense an undercurrent of tension. It was clear that Manon was not interested in sharing you with her friend, but you weren't sure why.

You took a deep breath and tried to shake off the feeling of unease. You told yourself that Manon was just being protective, that she didn't want her friend to get hurt. But as you stood there, listening to the conversation, you couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to it than that.

After a few minutes, you composed yourself and headed back upstairs, trying to act nonchalant. But as you lay in bed, you couldn't help but wonder what Manon's intentions were. Was she really just being protective, or was there something more to it?

You decided to brush it off and pretend you didn't hear the conversation. You told yourself that it was none of your business, and that Manon was probably just joking around with her friend.

As you went about your day, you tried to avoid thinking about the conversation. You focused on your studies, worked on a project, and even managed to squeeze in a quick workout. But despite your best efforts, you couldn't shake off the feeling that something had shifted between you and Manon.

When Manon's friend left later that day, Manon came upstairs to grab a book from her shelf. She caught your eye and smiled, but you just nodded and looked away, trying to play it cool.

Manon seemed to sense that something was off, because she lingered in the doorway, watching you with a curious expression. "Hey, is everything okay?" she asked, her voice soft.

You forced a smile and nodded. "Yeah, everything's fine," you said, trying to sound casual. "Just studying for an exam."

Manon raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. But she didn't push the issue, just nodded and headed back downstairs.

As the day drew to a close, you couldn't help but wonder what would have happened if you'd confronted Manon about the conversation. Would she have confessed her feelings, or would she have brushed it off as a joke?

You shook your head, telling yourself that it was better to just let it go. But as you drifted off to sleep, you couldn't shake the feeling that you'd missed an opportunity to explore something deeper with Manon.

The next morning, you woke up to find Manon already up and about, making breakfast in the kitchen. She smiled at you as you entered the kitchen, and you felt a flutter in your chest.

"Morning," she said, her voice bright. "I made pancakes."

You smiled back, feeling a sense of normalcy wash over you. Maybe, just maybe, you'd imagined the whole thing.

But as you sat down to eat, you caught Manon watching you, a curious expression on her face. And you wondered, once again, what she was really thinking.

You decided to try to make small talk and see if you could get a read on Manon's feelings. As you sat down to eat, you asked her about her plans for the day.

Manon launched into a detailed explanation of her art project, telling you about the inspiration behind it and the techniques she was using. You listened intently, asking questions and making supportive noises.

As you chatted, you couldn't help but notice the way Manon's eyes sparkled when she talked about her art. She was so passionate about it, and it was infectious. You found yourself getting caught up in her enthusiasm, feeling a sense of excitement and creativity.

But despite the easy conversation, you couldn't shake the feeling that there was something underlying between you. You kept catching Manon looking at you, her expression soft and curious. And when you met her eye, she would quickly look away, a faint blush rising to her cheeks.

You wondered if you were imagining things, if you were just reading too much into the situation. But as you continued to chat, you started to feel a sense of tension building between you. It was like there was a question hanging in the air, a question that neither of you was willing to ask.

As you finished up your breakfast, Manon suggested that you work on your respective projects together. She set up her easel in the living room, and you settled in at the kitchen table with your books and notes.

As you worked, the silence between you was comfortable, but you could sense the undercurrent of tension. You kept looking up to find Manon watching you, her eyes narrowed in concentration. And when you caught her eye, she would smile and look away, leaving you feeling frustrated and curious.

As the morning wore on, the tension between you started to feel almost palpable. You could sense that Manon was waiting for something, but you had no idea what. And as you worked, you found yourself wondering if you were brave enough to take the leap and find out.

Just as you were starting to feel like you couldn't take the tension anymore, Manon suddenly spoke up. "Hey, can I ask you something?" she said, her voice soft and tentative.

You looked up, your heart skipping a beat. "Of course," you said, trying to sound casual. "What's up?"

Manon hesitated, her eyes darting back and forth. And then, in a rush, she asked, "Do you have a girlfriend?"

You felt like you'd been punched in the gut. You hadn't expected the question, and you didn't know how to respond. Part of you wanted to tell Manon the truth, to confess that you were single and interested. But another part of you was scared, scared of getting hurt and scared of ruining your friendship with Manon.

As you hesitated, Manon's face fell, and she looked away, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment. "Never mind," she muttered. "It's none of my business."

You felt a pang of regret, knowing that you'd missed an opportunity to be honest with Manon. But as you looked at her, you saw the tension in her shoulders, the vulnerability in her eyes. And you knew that you had to find a way to respond, to let her know that you valued her and your friendship.

You smiled softly and reached out, placing a reassuring hand on Manon's arm. "Hey, don't worry about it," you said, trying to put her at ease. "I'm single, so you don't have to worry about stepping on anyone's toes."

Manon's face lit up with a radiant smile as she let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. Her eyes sparkled with relief, and she looked at you with a newfound sense of connection.

"Thanks for telling me," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I feel like I can breathe again."

You chuckled and squeezed her arm gently. "Anytime," you said, smiling back at her. "I'm glad I could put your mind at ease."

As you sat there, looking into each other's eyes, you felt a sense of tension dissipate. It was as if a weight had been lifted off your shoulders, and you could finally relax around each other.

Manon's smile faltered for a moment, and she looked at you with a curious expression. "Can I ask you something else?" she said, her voice hesitant.

You nodded, intrigued. "Of course," you said, leaning in slightly. "What's up?"

Manon took a deep breath before asking, "Would you like to grab coffee with me sometime? Just the two of us?"

You felt a flutter in your chest as you considered her question. It was clear that Manon was interested in spending more time with you, and you had to admit that you felt the same way.

You smiled, feeling a sense of excitement and possibility. "I'd love to grab coffee with you," you said, trying to sound casual despite the butterflies in your stomach.

Manon's face lit up with a radiant smile, and she let out a little squeal of excitement. "Really?" she asked, her eyes sparkling with delight.

You nodded, feeling a sense of joy and connection. "Really," you said, smiling back at her.

Manon bounced up from the couch, her energy infectious. "I'll go get my phone and we can make plans," she said, already heading for the stairs.

As you watched her go, you couldn't help but feel a sense of excitement and anticipation. You had no idea what the future held, but you knew that you were looking forward to spending more time with Manon.

Manon returned with her phone and started scrolling through her calendar. "How about tomorrow afternoon?" she asked, looking up at you with a hopeful expression.

You nodded, feeling a sense of agreement. "Tomorrow afternoon sounds perfect," you said, smiling back at her.

As you made plans, you couldn't help but notice the way Manon's eyes sparkled when she smiled, or the way her hair curled slightly at the edges. You felt a sense of attraction that you couldn't ignore, and you wondered if maybe, just maybe, this coffee date could be the start of something special.

As you finalized the plans, Manon looked up at you with a mischievous grin. "I'm really looking forward to tomorrow," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

You felt a flutter in your chest as you met her gaze. "Me too," you said, smiling back at her.

As the day went on, you tried to play it cool and pretend like the coffee date was no big deal. You went about your routine, doing chores and studying, but you couldn't shake the feeling that something was off.

Every so often, you'd catch yourself thinking about Manon and the way she smiled when she asked you out. You'd feel a flutter in your chest, and you'd quickly push the feeling aside, telling yourself that you were just being silly.

But as the hours ticked by, you started to wonder if you were reading too much into the situation. Maybe Manon just wanted to be friends, and you were overanalyzing everything. Maybe you were just caught up in the excitement of having someone to hang out with.

You tried to rationalize your feelings, telling yourself that it was okay to just enjoy the moment and not overthink things. But as you lay in bed that night, you couldn't shake the feeling that there was something more to Manon's invitation.

As you drifted off to sleep, you found yourself wondering what the next day would bring. Would Manon be nervous and awkward, or would she be her usual confident self? And what would you do if she was just being friendly, and didn't actually have romantic feelings for you?

The questions swirled in your mind, keeping you awake for what felt like hours. Finally, you drifted off to sleep, exhausted from the emotional rollercoaster you'd been on.

The next morning, you woke up feeling nervous and anxious. You got dressed and ready, trying to calm your nerves as you waited for Manon to come downstairs.

When she finally emerged, looking bright and cheerful in a yellow sundress, you felt your heart skip a beat. She smiled at you, and you smiled back, trying to play it cool.

"Hey," she said, breezing into the kitchen. "Ready for coffee?"

You nodded, feeling a sense of relief wash over you. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all.

As you walked to the coffee shop, Manon chatted easily about everything from art to music to her favorite books. You listened, entranced, feeling like you were getting to know her on a deeper level.

But despite the easy conversation, you couldn't shake the feeling that there was something more to this coffee date. Something that Manon wasn't telling you.

As you sat down at a small table outside, Manon leaned in, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "I'm really glad you could make it today," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

You felt a flutter in your chest, and you leaned in, your heart pounding in your ears. "I'm glad I could make it too," you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

As you sat there, looking into each other's eyes, you felt a sense of connection that you couldn't ignore. It was like the whole world had melted away, leaving just the two of you, suspended in a moment of pure possibility.

Just as it seemed like the moment was going to escalate into something more, Manon's phone suddenly buzzed with an incoming text. She groaned in frustration and pulled back, apologizing as she reached for her phone.

You felt a pang of disappointment, but you tried to play it cool, smiling and telling Manon to go ahead and answer the text. As she scrolled through her phone, her expression changed from relaxed to concerned.

"What's wrong?" you asked, feeling a sense of curiosity.

Manon hesitated, looking unsure of how to respond. "It's my friend Daniela," she said finally. "She's in town unexpectedly and wants to meet up."

You raised an eyebrow, feeling a sense of surprise. "Daniela? Isn't that the friend who was visiting the other day?" you asked.

Manon nodded, looking guilty. "Yeah, that's the one. I didn't expect her to come back to town so soon, but I guess she had a change of plans."

You felt a pang of disappointment, realizing that the coffee date was going to be cut short. But you tried to be understanding, smiling and telling Manon that it was okay.

As Manon texted Daniela back, you couldn't help but wonder what this unexpected visit meant. Was Daniela just passing through, or was there something more going on?

As you finished up your coffee, Manon looked up at you with a sheepish expression. "I'm so sorry about this," she said. "I feel like I'm abandoning you."

You smiled and reassured Manon that it was okay, that you understood. But as you parted ways, you couldn't help but feel a sense of uncertainty. What did Daniela's visit mean for you and Manon? And would you ever get to finish what you started?

You smiled and told Manon that you understood, but you weren't interested in meeting up with Daniela. "It's okay, really," you said. "I've got some stuff I need to work on anyway."

Manon looked relieved, but also a little disappointed. "Okay, no worries," she said. "I'll catch up with you later, then."

You nodded and watched as Manon hurried off to meet up with Daniela. As you walked back to your dorm, you couldn't help but feel a little left out. You had been looking forward to spending more time with Manon, and now it seemed like that wasn't going to happen.

When you got back to your dorm, you decided to focus on your work and try to put the disappointment out of your mind. You spent the rest of the day studying and working on projects, and by the time evening rolled around, you were feeling more productive and less bothered by the earlier events.

As you were getting ready for bed, you heard a knock at the door. You opened it to find Manon standing in the hallway, looking a little sheepish.

"Hey," she said. "I'm sorry again for ditching you earlier. I feel like I owe you an explanation."

You raised an eyebrow, curious about what Manon had to say. "What's going on?" you asked, stepping aside to let her in.

Manon hesitated, looking unsure of how to start. "It's just...Daniela is going through a tough time right now," she said. "She's been having some personal issues, and I promised her I'd be there for her."

You nodded, feeling a surge of understanding. "That makes sense," you said. "I'm glad you're being a good friend to her."

Manon smiled, looking relieved. "Thanks for understanding," she said. "I promise I'll make it up to you soon."

As Manon turned to leave, you felt a pang of curiosity. What did Manon mean by "making it up" to you? And what exactly was going on between her and Daniela?

You decided to let the conversation drop, not wanting to pry into Manon's personal business. You smiled and nodded, telling her that you understood, and that you were just glad she was being a good friend to Daniela.

Manon smiled back, looking relieved, and you could tell that she was grateful for your understanding. You chatted for a few more minutes, catching up on each other's days, and then Manon said goodnight and headed back to her room.

As you got ready for bed, you couldn't help but think about the conversation you'd just had with Manon. You were glad that you'd been understanding and supportive, but a part of you couldn't help but wonder what was really going on with Daniela. Was she really just going through a tough time, or was there something more to it?

You pushed the thoughts aside, telling yourself that it was none of your business. You were just glad that Manon was being a good friend, and that was all that mattered.

As you drifted off to sleep, you felt a sense of contentment wash over you. You were happy to have Manon as a friend, and you were grateful for the understanding and support that you'd shown each other.

The next day, you went about your routine as usual, attending classes and working on projects. You didn't see Manon until lunchtime, when you ran into her in the cafeteria.

She smiled and waved, and you joined her at her table. As you ate, you chatted about your morning, discussing everything from classes to TV shows.

Manon seemed a little more subdued than usual, but you couldn't tell if it was just because she was tired or if something was really bothering her. You asked her if everything was okay, and she nodded, smiling reassuringly.

But as you finished up your lunch and prepared to part ways, you couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. Manon seemed a little more distant than usual, and you wondered if everything was really okay.

As you walked back to your dorm, you couldn't help but think about Manon and what might be bothering her. You told yourself that you were just being paranoid, that Manon was probably fine and you were just reading too much into things.

But as you went about your day, you couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. You found yourself wondering what was really going on with Manon, and whether you should try to talk to her about it.

You decided to give Manon some space, figuring that she'll come to you if she needs to talk about something. You went about your day as usual, attending classes and working on projects.

As the day went on, you couldn't help but think about Manon and what might be bothering her. You wondered if she was okay, and if there was anything you could do to help.

But you also didn't want to pry or push her to talk about something she wasn't ready to discuss. You figured that if she needed someone to talk to, she would come to you.

As the evening drew to a close, you headed back to your dorm, feeling a little more relaxed. You spent some time reading and watching TV, and then got ready for bed.

Just as you were drifting off to sleep, you heard a knock at the door. You got up to answer it, expecting it to be one of your friends or maybe a neighbor.

But when you opened the door, you were surprised to see Manon standing there, looking a little sheepish. "Hey," she said, "I hope I'm not disturbing you."

You shook your head, feeling a little curious. "No, it's fine," you said. "What's up?"

Manon hesitated, looking unsure of how to start. "I just wanted to talk to you about something," she said finally. "Can I come in?"

You nodded, stepping aside to let Manon in. As she entered your room, you couldn't help but wonder what she wanted to talk about.

Was it something serious, or just something that was bothering her? And why had she come to you, instead of someone else?

As Manon sat down on your bed, looking a little nervous, you realized that you were about to find out.

You asked Manon what was on her mind, encouraging her to open up. "Hey, what's going on?" you said, trying to sound supportive. "You can tell me anything."

Manon took a deep breath, looking a little nervous. "It's just...I don't know how to say this," she said, hesitating. "But I've been feeling really overwhelmed lately. With school, and my art, and just life in general...I feel like I'm drowning."

You listened attentively, trying to offer a supportive ear. "I'm so sorry, Manon," you said. "That sounds really tough. But you know you can always talk to me, right? I'm here for you."

Manon smiled, looking a little relieved. "Thanks," she said. "Just talking to you makes me feel a little better. But there's something else...something I've been wanting to tell you for a while now."

You raised an eyebrow, feeling a little curious. "What is it?" you asked, trying to sound encouraging.

Manon took another deep breath, looking a little nervous. "I've been developing feelings for you," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I know it may seem sudden, but I couldn't help the way I feel. And I wanted to be honest with you, even if it means risking our friendship."

You felt like you'd been punched in the gut. You hadn't seen this coming, and you didn't know how to react.

You took a deep breath and told Manon that you felt the same way. "I've been feeling a connection with you too," you said, trying to sound calm. "I value our friendship, but I have to admit, I've been wondering if there's something more between us."

Manon's face lit up with a radiant smile. "Really?" she asked, her voice full of excitement.

You nodded, feeling a sense of joy and possibility. "Really," you said, smiling back at her.

Manon leaned in, her eyes sparkling with happiness. "I'm so glad," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I've been wanting to tell you for so long."

As you sat there, looking into each other's eyes, you felt a sense of connection and understanding that you'd never felt before. It was like you'd been waiting for this moment for a long time, and now that it was finally here, you were ready to seize it.

Manon leaned in closer, her face inches from yours. You could feel the tension between you, the anticipation of what was to come.

And then, in a moment that felt like time standing still, Manon kissed you.

It was a soft, gentle kiss, but it sent shivers down your spine. You felt like you were melting into her, like you were becoming one person.

As you pulled back, gasping for air, you saw the smile on Manon's face. It was a smile of joy, of happiness, of love.

"I've been wanting to do that for so long," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

You smiled back, feeling like you were on cloud nine. "I'm glad you did," you said, your voice filled with emotion.

As you sat there, looking into each other's eyes, you knew that this was just the beginning of something special.

You and Manon decided to go on a proper date, to celebrate your newfound feelings. You both agreed that it would be nice to get out of the dorm and explore the town.

Manon suggested a quaint little Italian restaurant that she had been wanting to try, and you agreed. You made a reservation for that evening, and spent the rest of the day counting down the hours until your date.

You felt a little nervous, but Manon's smile put you at ease. You were greeted by the hostess and led to your table, where you spent the next few hours enjoying delicious food and wine, and getting to know each other better.

The conversation flowed easily, and you found yourself laughing and joking with Manon like you had known her for years. You talked about everything from your favorite books and movies, to your childhood memories and dreams for the future.

As the evening drew to a close, you walked Manon back to her dorm, feeling like you were on cloud nine. You had never felt such a strong connection with someone before, and you couldn't wait to see where things would go from here.

As you stood outside Manon's dorm, you turned to her and smiled. "I had an amazing time tonight," you said, your voice filled with sincerity.

Manon smiled back, her eyes sparkling with happiness. "I had an amazing time too," she said. "Would you like to do it again sometime soon?"

You nodded eagerly, feeling like you were floating on air. "Definitely," you said. "How about tomorrow night?"

Manon laughed, a playful glint in her eye. "You're eager, aren't you?" she teased.

You grinned, feeling a little sheepish. "Maybe just a little," you admitted.

Manon smiled, her expression softening. "I like that," she said. "Tomorrow night sounds perfect."

As you leaned in to kiss her goodnight, you knew that this was just the beginning of something special.

—

You finished getting dressed in your usual baggy outfit, feeling comfortable and relaxed. You headed downstairs, where Manon was waiting for you, looking stylish and put-together as always.

"Ready?" she asked, smiling at you.

You nodded, and Manon held out her hands, expecting you to take them. You felt a little flutter in your chest as you intertwined your fingers with hers, feeling a sense of excitement and nervousness.

Manon led the way, walking confidently through the dorm and out into the cool evening air. You followed her, feeling a sense of trust and reliance on her. She seemed to know exactly where she was going, and you were happy to follow her lead.

As you walked to the cinema, Manon chatted easily about her day, telling you about her classes and her friends. You listened attentively, feeling grateful for her presence in your life.

When you arrived at the cinema, Manon bought your tickets and led you to the concession stand. "What do you want to eat?" she asked, smiling at you.

You shrugged, feeling a little indecisive. "Whatever you want," you said.

Manon laughed and ordered a large bucket of popcorn and two sodas. You carried the snacks while Manon led the way to the theater.

As you found your seats and settled in for the movie, Manon reached for your hand again, intertwining your fingers with hers. You felt a sense of comfort and security, knowing that she was there with you.

As the movie started, you and Manon settled in, watching the opening scenes with interest. But as the film progressed, you found yourself becoming more and more aware of Manon's presence beside you.

You felt her hand in yours, her fingers intertwined with yours in a gentle but firm grasp. You felt her arm against yours, her shoulder brushing against yours as you both laughed at a funny moment in the movie.

As the tension in the film built, you found yourself leaning in closer to Manon, your heads almost touching as you both watched the screen with rapt attention. You could feel her warm breath on your skin, and you felt a shiver run down your spine.

Manon seemed to sense your movement, and she turned to you, her eyes sparkling with amusement. You met her gaze, feeling a jolt of electricity as your eyes locked.

For a moment, you just stared at each other, the movie forgotten. Then, without thinking, you leaned in closer, your lips brushing against Manon's in a soft, gentle kiss.

Manon's eyes fluttered closed, and she kissed you back, her lips warm and inviting. You felt a rush of excitement, your heart pounding in your chest as you deepened the kiss.

The movie played on, forgotten, as you and Manon lost yourselves in the moment. You kissed for what felt like hours, the world around you melting away as you focused on the sensation of Manon's lips against yours.

Finally, you pulled back, gasping for air. Manon's eyes sparkled with amusement, and she smiled, her lips still warm from your kiss.

"I guess we got a little distracted," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the sound of the movie.

You grinned, feeling a little sheepish. "Just a little," you replied, your voice equally soft.

Manon leaned in closer, her lips brushing against your ear. "I don't mind," she whispered. "I liked it."

You felt a shiver run down your spine as Manon's warm breath tickled your ear. You turned to her, your eyes locking with hers in a sparkling gaze.

You and Manon decided to get a little more romantic, sharing another kiss or two in the darkness of the theater. You leaned in closer, your lips brushing against Manon's in a soft, gentle kiss.

Manon's eyes fluttered closed, and she kissed you back, her lips warm and inviting. You felt a rush of excitement, your heart pounding in your chest as you deepened the kiss.

The movie played on, forgotten, as you and Manon lost yourselves in the moment. You kissed for what felt like hours, the world around you melting away as you focused on the sensation of Manon's lips against yours.

As you kissed, you felt a sense of connection with Manon that you'd never felt before. It was like you were two pieces of a puzzle that fit together perfectly, and you knew that you were meant to be together.

Finally, you pulled back, gasping for air. Manon's eyes sparkled with amusement, and she smiled, her lips still warm from your kiss.

"I think we've made our point," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the sound of the movie.

You grinned, feeling a little sheepish. "I guess we have," you replied, your voice equally soft.

Manon leaned in closer, her lips brushing against your ear. "I'm so glad we did," she whispered. "I feel like I've been waiting for this moment for so long."

You felt a shiver run down your spine as Manon's warm breath tickled your ear. You turned to her, your eyes locking with hers in a sparkling gaze.

"I'm glad too," you whispered back, your voice filled with emotion.

As the movie came to an end, you and Manon reluctantly pulled apart, smiling at each other like fools. You knew that this was just the beginning of something special, something that would change your life forever.

You walked out of the theater hand in hand, feeling like you were on top of the world. You knew that you had found your soulmate in Manon, and you couldn't wait to see what the future held for you both.

As you strolled through the quiet streets, you felt a sense of peace and contentment wash over you. You knew that you had found your perfect match, and you were grateful for every moment you spent with Manon.

And as you looked into her eyes, you knew that you would love her forever.

[unconventional-lawnchair]

There's not much Barty Crouch Jr content out there. If you don't mind writing about him, can I make a request? After escaping Azkaban, he serves his Lord to the best of his ability, but there is someone from his past that he still can't get out of his mind. A Slytherin and from a family of followers of the Dark Lord. They had a relationship during their youth. After many years, he finds her again. He always had a soft spot for her. But the reader (like Snape, a sort of spy) is secretly thinking against the Dark Lord and stays away from these things as much as possible, but she is definitely in danger. Things are complicated, but the strong attraction and longing between them cannot be ignored...

The Boy I Knew

Barty Crouch Jr. x Black!Fem!Reader

Cw; Y/N, obsessions, one sided love(Barty pining), Barty being unhinged. Reader is morally grey, Remus Lupin onesided love (Rem pining), sexual themes and scenes, mentions of murder}} Please tell me if I missed anything!

AN- this fanfic is now well over what it should have been. I am posting a fraction of the proofread bits as of now, as I realize this is probably not at all what you wanted and if so I am SO sorry. If you want more I have a pouch that just needs to be beta read

Wc-5670

Taglist: @defnotfrey @au-ghosttype

{. 1972 - Barty’s Year 1 .}

Bartemius Crouch Junior couldn't have been older than eleven when he first met {Y/N} Walburga Black.  A cool upperclassman, if only by a year. 

Bartemius, at that ripe age, knew only a handful of things, and two of those was how badly he wanted to be seen and known. He wanted to be seen for who he was, and known for what he would do. That's likely what drew him to you. 

At only twelve, you and your brother had made a name for yourselves, in much different ways. Your brother was popular, for his quick tongue and clever quips, his innate ability to get under anyone's skin and stay there. Those traits could be forgiven, and they always were, for his big heart and intense sense of moral. 

You, however, were known for harboring a few very non Black traits, like your intense empathy and your crazed thirst for knowledge. Even as a Slytherin, your loyalty and curiosity rivaled the students around you tenfold. Your bravery knew no bounds, even with all the wrongs you had been done, you were forgiving and understanding. You were seen by everyone, you were known for everything.

As he got older, he wondered where that forgiveness went. You grew cold.

When he was innocent, when he had done no wrongs, you cradled him in your hands like he was a gift. You looked at him with eyes you shared with everyone, so much care and patience, so much understanding and kindness. So if those eyes were shared with the masses, he struggled, but was determined, to keep them focused on himself at any chance given.

It was obvious to anyone who saw the two interact. Barty wanted to be witnessed by you. The halls filled with the judgeful and teasing murmurs when he found you in the halls.

“There goes {Y/N}’s prodigy.”

“Barty is off to find his guru.”

“That boy will never learn.”

“How annoying.”

Barty had never been ashamed of his declarations for praise. He knew most of the voices were bitter with jealousy. He would be jealous too. You were both so young, and yet even some older students looked to you like you were twice your age, yet every Friday when the tests were returned, you sat in the courtyard and waited for him. Your personal underclassman.

You would meet in the yard and he would brandish his flawless marks, you would praise his abilities in absolute pride. He had never had someone prideful of him before. Everyone knew him to be a mother’s boy, but he would challenge any of those claims. He was a {Y/N}’s boy, he'd tell them, no shame as students snickered and made their fun of him. He was never afraid of how much he liked you. How much he admired and respected you.

He would turn from the RavenClaw table and look to you after his announcements everytime, you would be eating with Lily Evans and the other girls of her group, but your eyes would be on him. You would give him a soft smile that drove him mad. He would return it with his own, the smile he would save for you. Just you.

When he was only eleven and you were twelve, everything was perfect for him. You focused your attention on studies, your friends, and of course, Barty. That's how it stayed for years.

He would reminisce in his cell, running his dulled nail along the jagged stone walls, carving intents of every minute that passed. Remembering all of the things he regretted most in his life. Losing your trust was where his spiral began. He was a foolish kid.

{. 1974 Barty’s Year 3 .}

“It's getting embarrassing.”

Barty was eating lunch with one of the many friends he had made during his years at Hogwarts, Evan Rosier. He was once again bringing the conversation back to you, as he had been for the past few days.

“You trail after her like a loyal dog. Has she even given you a hint that she may return your feelings?” 

“What feelings?”

Evan and you did not get along. You never had. When he first found himself growing closer to him, you voiced your distaste for Evan the very next day. Barty always trusted your judgment, he obeyed you without much of a fight in most cases. This was not one of those cases.

He figured you to be biased, your brother thought him to be a Death Eater and you despised them. Something he could never understand, you were a pureblood, a Black, you were a powerful witch, and you would never have to worry about falling for a half blood or muggleborn, or Merlin forbid, a muggle. You were smarter than that. He always figured. You wouldn't taint your legacy.

Not like your useless brother, who he could see even now, describing his entanglements with witches and wizards of any kind, to the other Marauders.

As the years went on, you and Barty’s meetings became scarcer and scarcer, they went from Fridays to every second Friday, finally, you now only met every last Friday of the month. Still, Barty clung to you with a desperation he never would give anyone else.

Recently, you had gotten into a fight. One where you expressed your worry for what could possibly happen to him if he got involved with the wrong crowd. Barty, admittedly, didn't respond in kind. He was furious with you. You questioned his company but pushed away from him, you questioned his morals and his standing on the war. He told you there was no war to him, there was no fight.

At the end of the day, he would be standing by you.

The answer seemed to distress you further. It turned into a match of shouts and desperate pleas of compliance. It caused a scene, people watched as you defended your standing on your side of the war, this fight you were having with yourself he assumed. There was no war. This was a power struggle.

Evan’s scoff snapped him out of his thoughts and he looked up from his plate to his eyes. 

“Barty, half the school knows you've been in love with her since first year.” He hissed and Barty frowned. Would he call it love? He didn't think about it long before he had his answer. Love wasn't something he looked for, but he found it constantly. From the love he shared with Pandora, to the love he shared with Regulus, even the love he was nurturing with the brutish Evan.

No love in his body burned hotter then his love for you. 

He never thought about it because he never had to. Why would he? He knew you loved him too. He knew what you two shared was never anything that could be challenged. He was your prodigy. He was your prodigy. He didn't care for much, as long as he was yours. 

Evan snapped his fingers in his face and drew his attention back to him. He gave a slick smirk and wet his lips. “Come on, Barty, she's just a girl. You're wasting talent. Talent that could be used for someone who actually appreciates you.”

“She does appreciate me.” Barty challenged immediately, before Evan smirked and gestured to the Gryffindor table. “Does she?”

Barty turned just in time to see you, he never had to stare at a crowd too long to find you. 

You were sitting with your brother and his friends, side by side with Remus, sitting far too close for comfort. He was whispering something in your ear, making you giggle. Turning to look at him with the truest smile he's ever seen you make. Flashing your beautifully uneven teeth, your cheeks dimpling and eyes seeming to sparkle. Your eyes met Lupin’s and he took in your expression like he could die in that moment. 

Barty had never seen you smile like that before. He had never seen you look that way before. You had never looked at him like that before.

He hadn't even noticed as he began to bend the fork in his hand, fist tightening as he watched as Remus lean in and stole a kiss against your cheek. You gave a bigger laugh at this. Moving in to kiss his lips carefully. 

The wonderful moment you were having was interrupted when a loud snap sounded threw the cafeteria. Your eyes snapped over to the RavenClaw table, as did a lot of your peers. Barty had snapped a fork in half with his thumb alone. Before a professor could scold him, he got up from his seat and stomped out of the grand hall, and your eyes followed them.

You muttered a quick apology to Remus and he nodded in understanding as you scrambled to your feet to follow after him. 

He wished he could take every word he called you in that hall back now. He wished he had been smart enough to know that loving you with you in his life would of been far less torture then loving a girl who hated your guts. 

“You blood trader!”

“This! This is what I meant, Bartemius! My Barty would never-”

“You don't have a clue about me, you insolent heartbreaker! What of us, Black?”

“Us? What Us, Barty?”

That night he realized that no matter how genuine his love was for you, how deeply it ran, those times spent alone meant far more to him then it ever meant to you. You did stuff like that for everyone. 

He wasn't entitled to your love. Running his nail down until it was blunted against the wall. Azkaban could no longer do more harm then it already had.

{. 1974 Barty’s Year 4 .}

An entire school year. You and Barty didn't speak for an entire school year.

He kept his tabs on you, of course, because no matter what you said to him that day, you were still his person. Knowing how ignorant and how dangerously minded you could be, he took it upon himself to look over you. You may have been older, you may have sworn him, at one time, your loyalty and protection. But now, he had power of his own. He would repay you. He would repay and reeducate you, given the chance. With all the training him, Evan, Muliciber, Avery, even Snape had done? By Merlin’s beard he could do anything.

He had the mind to back that up, but he kept his power under wraps. You were always frightened by what you didn't understand, the last thing he wanted was for you to fear him. He wanted everyone to know him as fear, not you.

Never you.

When the school year started Barty noticed the shift instantly. He knew you like the back of his hand, far more than he let on most days, but it didn't take a genius to see that {Y/N} Black sitting with Regulus Black at the Slytherin table was odd. 

He soon learned of what happened between Sirius and his family, a right disgrace. Then to learn Sirius scorned you from his life for choosing to stay with Regulus, that was probably what started Barty’s absolute disdain for your brother. You had gone through training per Regulus. Saying before Sirius left he let it slip about you and Remus, trying to entice you to leave with him. You refused and your mother lost it. Walburga was a stain on this earth for what she had done. Even then…

It was all for the better, as he saw it. You don't need the impressions of Sirius Black, Lily Evans, Mary Macdonald, Remus Lupin, or any others that pour their venom into a perfect witch as yourself. He would make sure it stayed that way, even if it hurt you. However, he couldn't lie.

You always looked your best when you knew your worth. 

It wasn't just your routine that changed, you became cold to your old friends, dropping the Muggle borns and staying weary of the half bloods. You started to associate mainly with more influential Purebloods.

That meant him. 

He knew his father was good for something.

“Crouch? Would you like to accompany me to the library?” Your voice sang out to him, despite your listless monotone and drifting eyes. It was the first sentence you muttered to him in 13 months. Your voice was more reserved, your back straightened and your lips pouted. You didn't look like that 12 year old he knew, you were 16 now. Even in his depravity, he took notice of every lovely advancement you had taken in care of your appearance. Your mother instructed you with glamours and proper wear, even now wearing a black feathered choker and brandished a black quill. A family heirloom, Regulus would tell him.

Now, he hated your mother, there was no question about that. What she had done to Regulus was unforgivable, what she had done to you was cause for retaliation in his eyes. But Merlin, did she put you back on the path of greatness.

“Crouch? {Y/N}, my love, it will always be Barty to you.” He lit up like a child, voice sugary sweet. It was your turn to take notice of his change. He was still the same boy you met in first year. Endlessly obsessive, devoted, and excelling at all the things you liked about him. Unfortunately, also the things you hated. 

But, he was still your Barty in your heart. The boy you loved, the boy you cherished, the boy who charmed your soul in ways you didn't know possible. If you had to pick anyone to fill the hollowed out ache in your chest, you chose dangerously, Barty Crouch Jr would be your reprieve.

He was just older now. He was becoming a man.

Everyone knows what they say, about a boy and a girl, coming into their own together. Barty figured this was your love story, you weren't one to argue any longer.

He didn't care that you only seemed to speak to him out of necessity. When he heard from Regulus that your mother was making you pick your friends based on their social standing, any males to soon be a suitor, he was ecstatic.

He was remarkable. He was seen. He was valuable enough to you to not be a mere pawn but maybe even a queen on your chest set. To be used by you? It was worth every moment of the ache. All of this because his father just so happened to keep his filthy hands to the purest bloodlines.

That was his value to you. His blood, his sweat, his labor, and his mind. They were yours, no questions asked. He clung to your heel with new found determination. He would keep you on the right track, the promised one. The one that would ensure your children had the same opportunities. 

He knew he wanted this the moment he walked in on you and Severus arguing in the courtyard.

“You dare call her a Mudblood, you incessant pompous Half Breed?!” Your voice echoed through the halls. People watched in horror, some in absolute shock, the sweet kind girl they had grown attached to was a right monster now. Barty, however, was loving it. You were a proper pureblood.

“{Y/N}-” Severus spoke carefully, something about his tone was far too familiar for Barty’s liking, him addressing you by first name made his jaw tighten. He didn't have to say a word. You rectified it.

“Do not address me as anything other than Black, you dirty mutt!” You screeched. Severus looked stunned, the usually stoic boy looked broken. Barty watched as your eyes trailed over a shocked and watery eyed Lily Evans, he almost didn't catch you muttering, “You lost that privilege.”

He, of course, came to your rescue, as he always promised. Hand around your back and escorted you away from the fight. As you both walked down the corridor your path was blocked. 

Barty almost laughed, Remus Lupin. He was standing with Sirius Black, both staring threatening daggers at Barty. When you both kept walking, Barty shoved a path between the two boys, you hand a fistful of his cloak so as to not be left behind.

He didn't like how Remus’s eyes softened at the sight of you. He didn't like how Sirius reached for you. He walked faster, putting your sniffling form in front of himself.

After that, he knew he had you. 

You were becoming who you were meant to be.

~~~

He took his mark that summer, standing alongside your brother Regulus Black, Lucius Malfoy, Beatrix Black and Evan Rosier. They were at your cousin’s manor, in the ballroom standing side by side. He was as straight as a board, brimming with pride, smirking to himself and brandishing his left arm.

He could feel your eyes on him, from where you stood, next to Narcissa, your aunt and your mother. Waiting for him. 

Evan was first, standing beside Barty and holding out his wrist. When the wand hovered over his wrist and the Death Eater began to mutter the incantation, Evan let out a blood curdling sound. Pure brutish pain shot through him, leading him to fall back. Quickly held up by two other death eaters behind him.

When the wand brushed Barty’s wrist next, he hardly flinched. Tilting his head back as sweat gathered around his temple and neck. He bit his lip and let himself feel every sharp intrusion the spell took, letting himself succumb to the blissful pain.

When he returned to you, not standing to wait for dismissal like the rest of them, he wrapped his arm around your waist and yanked you in. He stole your lips for his own, making you give a slight gasp. You don't fight it, so he pushed further, letting himself taste your bottom lip and pulling it punishingly between his teeth. Through his high he was able to recognize and memorize the feel of your lips and the taste, in his mind, it was the closest to the gods he'd ever get. What was true heaven, however, was when you took his cheeks in your hands and kissed him back.

“Enough.” He heard your mother hiss from beside you. She shooed Barty away like he was some stray dog. He backed down from where you stood, licking his lips and admiring just how shaken and red you looked. Your mother, the hag, pushed you behind herself and hid you away from his eyes.

When you looked away and covered your mouth, he almost didn't notice how you also licked your lips clean. That drove him mad.

He had come to the conclusion early on, you were a temptress. A vixen. A damned Siren as far as he knew. 

Memories of that night, your first kiss, the moment he could see you falling for him. A proper man, worthy of the worship he planned to give you. Worthy of serving a goddess like you. It kept him up most nights, it was a high even the dementor's couldn't take away, but they did manage to warp his obsession from what he believed to have been holy, to the truth.

He was brought on this earth for you. Without you, he was nothing. He was rotting.

{. 1976 Barty’s Year 6 .}

The next year he took your hand and promised you the world. To his delight, you responded in kind. You began dating his sixth year and it was absolute bliss. 

It didn't last long, that bliss. It became a thrill.

Despite his power and loyalty to the dark lord, your mother favored another's for your hand. Particularly, Avery. His father came to your mother with the proposal, your mother liked his offer of the estate and your own power over the house.

You, however, much to Barty’s delight, were way too far gone. In your now secret meetings, where you would take you strolls along the city street, to the shop or to the boutique. You made a show of it; but you only truly left for Crouch Manor.

Where Mr. and Mrs. Crouch turned their other cheek as you snuck your way to Barty’s chambers. Behind those locked doors your love was dangerous. His whispers and promises of treachery against your family name were met with nothing less than desperate devotion and promises in kind. As your palms glided over his bare chest and his large hands found their way under your skirt.

His favorite memories were all locked away in that room. The room he made you his own, where his hands grew familiar with your skin in ways no one else ever could, where he found an affinity for you breathless, and where he heard you let out sounds no self respecting Black heiress should ever let out. 

He claimed what was his birthright, between your legs. Bruised your lips numb and left marks you had to charm away when you made it back home. Just in time for supper.

With the feeling of him still fresh on your body. The pureblood heir your parents thought so lowly of. The heir they didn't see fit to sit at that very table, was still there. His lips were on the rim of the cup you sipped from, his hands were on the arm rests you relaxed against, and his teeth and claws were buried into their perfect daughter.

{. 1978 .}

By the time you both graduated, you took your place at the table. Having fought to hold off your engagement to Avery, Barty took it into his own hands to get between the two of you. Every time you glance in the boy's direction, he shrivels in on himself.

“Barty?” You whispered between his greedy kisses, in the halls of the Malfoy manor.  The only times his hands could find your hips and his lips could find yours outside of his own room now. He was starting to see less and less of you. The war was in full swing and with his desperation for you was all that was driving him most days. 

Thinking now, he wondered what drove you. Even now, having spent a year in Azkaban, you were still the light he flew to, no matter how much it hurt him. He could have sworn, at one time, it was him.

“Darling.” He whispered low against your lips. You tangled your fingers into his hair, before pulling him down. He rested his chin against the curve of your chest and looked up into your eyes.

You bit your lip, running your thumb along his own reddening ones. “Do you love me, Barty?” You cooed.

“I do.” He affirmed, licking the skin you touched along his Cupid's bow, “I do, more than anything.” His voice was raw and rough, he pulled at your hold, trying desperately to kiss you again.

“Do something for me, Barty.” 

“Anything, Darling. Anything.” He muttered, eyes still on your lips.

“Be within my reach. Always.” You whispered before releasing him. He took your lips once more, pushing you back against the wall like the very prospect of not touching you in some way was physically painful. His hand traveled up from your hand to rub over the mark you took just days earlier.

Every moment like that seemed fleeting. 

The very next year, Regulus Black passed. He had gone MIA and your mother, despite her loyalty to Voldemort, commanded you home. It got worse when they officially announced his death.

You stayed locked in those walls, by order of your mother. He missed you dearly. Barty never wanted to be your hero, some great commander, he couldn't care less now about who else even knew his name anymore. He was older now, and he just wanted to be yours. 

So, it pushed Barty to work even harder. Anything to appease The Dark Lord, get this war over with, so he could return to the only true person worthy of his reverence. 

Without you, his life went by in simple clips of reality. When Voldemort fell, he was imprisoned in this hellhole, and even now, he found himself unable to let anything else consume his mind.

The dripping of water from the rusting metal doors drove him mad. No other sounds but the miserable screams of inmates and slamming of bodies against pavement. It was a torturous and hopeless place, some people preferred punishment by their own hands. There was suddenly a loud clanging of keys that cut his thoughts.

He looked up from the corner of his cell, putting his thumb in his mouth and sucking on the bleeding torn skin. The marks he had made on the cell walls marked his 354th day in this nightmare. His eyes locked with his father and his mother, furrowing his brow as he stood.

His mother two out two veils of a slug colored potion, his father had another potion in his hand.

Barty didn't stay in that cell to see his 355th.

~~~

{. 1994 POV Shift .}

“It's a bit cold, don't you think?”

Remus Lupin's voice cut through the fog of your mind like a knife through butter. He was right, of course. Even as the year grew warmer with the summer months growing closer, the astronomy tower always gave a pleasant and persistent chill. 

You were used to it, by now. Being the Astronomy Professor for almost twelve years. About the same amount of years you managed to avoid coming into contact with Remus himself. 

You had to give him credit, Remus Lupin, he was persistent. Doing everything in his power to get you alone. As if one conversation would melt away years of what you had done, the people you deceived, the lives you took, the lies you told… all in the name of a crazed boy long lost to the history of the wizarding world. For the family who was as faded as the family tree you used to tend to with your brothers, painting names and burning faces. 

As if speaking to you would somehow bridge a gap. A gap in his heart that still ached for you. It was never something he was able to understand, your persistent and endless love for Crouch had come out of nowhere for him. He couldn't look Sirius in the eye for a long time, learning he had outed your budding relationship. 

He took every chance he could, to reach out, to speak to you, it was met with closed doors and a reminder of remaining professional. 

“It is. Heading out, Lupin?” You muttered to him. You couldn't lie and say having him here didn't make you feel, in some ways, nostalgic. To the loving, caring, respectful girl you once knew. One with so much patience and kindness you shared it with all kinds of souls. Souls you've watched drop like flies under the man you swore your life to.

“I am.” Remus muttered but didn't turn to leave. You shifted on your heel to look back at him from the entrance of the tower. He had his hand resting on the railing, his palm thudding against the railing as he tried to gather the courage to continue.

“I heard you gave Snape quite the earful.” He hummed, walking deeper into your classroom. You thinned your lips and shook your head, turning away from him. He gave a weak scoff. 

“Could you at least look at me?” He pushed, his voice wavering. You closed your eyes and gave a deep sigh. Your hands moved to grab the railing.

“What is it, Lupin?” 

“It's not too late.” He whispered and you closed your eyes. His words were exact, aimed to cut deep and retrieve from you the heart he knew was there; it just had grown cold. “You could come back. With me, tonight, we can meet with Padfoot and-”

“And what, Lupin?” You spoke calmly as you turned to face him. He went rigid at your stare. “Live this wonderful life you have weaved out for us? Pretend that everything is okay and the last few years never happened?” You pushed and he closed his eyes. 

Anger bubbled in his throat with something familiar, jealousy and bitter melancholy. If he could hear you any clearer you would be cotton in his ears. Your words were empty because he knew you could. Put Hogwarts behind you and come back to him, come with him and Sirius like you should have done back when you wore uniform and not cloaks like proper professors. Nothing was proper about you two aching hearts anyway. 

Yet history repeated itself.

It always would.

“You know he's gone.” Remus started slowly and your breath caught in your throat. You felt your eyes grow glossy with grief and you placed your left hand over your heart. 

“I never thought I would be someone's second choice. To Bartemius Crouch Jr.” He continued. “I see I never measured up, did I?” 

“... I am sorry, Remus.” You whispered, your voice, for the first time in years, was vulnerable. It was careful.

Because of course you loved Remus. You loved him dearly, but no man would own you like Barty had. You were terrified to let yourself be loved with anything less than what he had shown you. Steadfast and faithful love. No one could challenge the status of Barty in your life.

Even in death his ghost reminds you of your place. Next to him. 

Once this was over, once Dumbledore had seen and used his worth in you, when you were no longer under his wing like a servant, you would go back to 12 Grimmauld Place. You would retire. And you would wait for Barty to take you back home. Let it be a year, let it be ten, you would return to him as promised.

“... What have you become?” He whispered to you, and your eyes finally raised to meet him. You caught your tears and quickly cleaned your face. Shaking your head you put back on your practiced and perfect pout.

“.. A Black.”

Your exchange ended there. 

Remus returned to your brother, you presumed. You forged ignorance when you were questioned by the Ministry of your brother’s whereabouts. It didn't take much for them to let you be, especially with Mr. Crouch Senior’s particular protectiveness of you. Probably a gift from Mrs. Crouch, oh, how you missed her.

When Barty was taken and your mother was far too weak to control you, you visited the Crouchs’ daily. You helped Winky with taking care of his parents, particularly his sick and fragile mother. You grew a weak repore with his father, though you despised him. 

As a proper pureblood you just silently reaped the benefits of what the world had gifted you.

Including your wealth. With the house of Black fallen you were left to be the soul heir. Though, the moment you heard of Sirius Black’s escape, you reopened your joint account. Soon, you heard someone was able to access it. It was true; your brother was alive and well.

That was the only olive branch you extended to him. 

Once the school year was officially over you returned home. To your modest house down in an old town just a broom ride away from Hogwarts. Feldcroft.

You returned home, it was uneventful. Until you opened your door. 

You were greeted by Winky, the Crouch’s house elf. That wouldn't be unusual, Barty had preached to her about how you were both intended. How she should attend to you, how she attended to him. So she would appear at your house from time to time, with gifts and food she had prepared for Crouch Senior that she made just too much of.

“Winky?” You called out to the figure in your hall. The sheepish girl turned to face you with a careful smile.

“Madam Black has returned! How happy Winky is to see you, mistress.” She declared and hurried up to you. Her path was cut short as Creature stepped in front of her, snapping away your bags. He seemed in a foul mood. Fowler then usual.

“Your mother would not approve of your company, Ms. Blaaaack.” He warned and you furrowed your brow. “Nor would she approve of this home-”

“Kreature.” You demanded and he huffed. Winky was always coming in and out, Creature never voiced displeasure with her company and your mother, well, she could care less. “What company?”

“The noisy Crouch, Ma'am.”

Your heart dropped. He apparated away, assumingly to unpack your bags. Your eyes widened as Winky appeared in front of your full view. Showing off the black quill you had most definitely left at home. Your mothers old quill. You took it carefully from the house elf.

“Winky..” You spoke carefully and slowly. Holding up the quill between your fingers. “Who gave this to you?”

“I think you know, Darling.” 

Before Winky could answer, a voice lost to time spoke first. You knew it before you even turned around. 

Still, you jerked your entire body to face him. Your eyes locked, full of longing and hope.

 And there he was. Your Barty.

He was holding a newspaper, licking his bottom lip but his eyes were on you. His eyes were just how you always remembered them. So full of danger and appreciation for your simple presence. He stepped towards you and you took a step back. He tsked at that, reaching out to grab your waist. “Darling..” He whispered.

You were still in shock. Staring up at his brown eyes and waiting. For anything. “Barty?” You whispered.

When he kissed you, alarm bells went off in your head. You didn't listen to any of them, grabbing him just as greedily as he held you. Both of your eyes closed and you held each other like you might perspire. 

He was home.

He truly was.

[traveler-at-heart]

Live, Love, Natalie Rushman

Summary: Based on a request by @lynattyx - Natasha and R meet when she's working undercover at Stark Industries.

Natasha Romanoff x Fem!R

Live Love Legal

The sign was meant to be a graduation joke, but you still placed it on a shelf in your very serious, very corporate office.

Even now, as you were promoted to Senior Associate -the youngest at Stark Industries- and you had a bigger space, with a breathtaking view of Central Park and Midtown Manhattan.

It was your first day, and you were determined to make things right. Top of the list, onboarding Miss Potts’ new paralegal assistant. Your secretary (holy crap, you had a secretary!) had called to informed you she was waiting at the front desk.

“Natalie?” you called, imagining the woman with red hair and black slacks was the new assistant.

Though, you were not prepared for the sight that greeted you when she turned around, striking green eyes and a perfect smile in place.

“You must be Y/N”

The way her raspy voice caressed every syllable of your name almost made you weak in the knees.

But this was work, and you couldn’t lose your shit over the most beautiful woman you’d ever seen.

“Yes. Come with me, I’ll show you around”

Pleased with the firmness of your voice, you gave Natalie a tour of the office, pointing at different areas where most meetings took place. You also showed her where to find the information of everyone she might need to contact, and then you went up to Pepper’s office. The short elevator ride was littered with small talk, and you considered a success how your cheeks flushed only once.

“Come in” Pepper said and you opened the door, Natalie right behind you. “Y/N, happy first day as an associate. And you must be Natalie Rushman”

After a brief introduction, you were ready to leave both women to work.

“If you need anything, just let me know” you said to Natalie before going back to your office.

“Anything?” she said with a small smile. Perhaps it was all in your head, or the woman had really managed to make the question sound… loaded.

“Of course” you said, heat going to your cheeks.

Once the elevator doors were shut, you leaned against the wall, wondering if you’d imagined Natalie’s parfume still lingering in the air.

Maybe that sign at your office should read Live Love Lesbian instead.

—

It had been a week - a busy, insane week- but Natalie hadn’t needed your help with anything. While you wanted to feel relief, because you had enough on your plate, you were actually disappointed. Those green eyes and that beautiful voice would not leave your thoughts.

To your displeasure, you weren’t the only one.

“Tony” you said, feeling a headache as you entered your office first thing in the morning and saw him behind your desk, feet up.

“Y/N. How’s the new job going?”

“It would be better if you gave the government some information about those suits. But I will say I love my new parking space”

“Right! New is good” he agreed, not moving from your chair. “Like that new girl. Natalie Rushmore…”

“Rushman” the headache intensified.

“Right, whatever. Isn’t she good?”

“Ask Pepper”

“I mean I did, and she told me to stop before  I did anything that might get me sued for harrassment”

“Pepper’s right. You can’t go around sleeping with your employees”

“I was only flirting” he spun around and you had enough, finally kicking him so he’d stand up. “I was never inappropriate to you, right?”

“That’s because I’m gay, Tony”

“And do you think Natalie might be…?” you glared at the man and he was quick to explain. “I hear there’s a sixth sense involved in the whole experience”

“Leave before I throw you out the window, Stark”

“You’re no fun” he complained, winking as he shut the door to your office.

—

The next time you saw Natalie was as you prepared a meeting with new VC investors and the board.

“I need you to place the NDAs in the binder that we’re sending to legal…” Pepper said and Natalie stopped walking. The sudden halt made you turn your attention. It wasn’t hard to understand what that look meant. She had forgotten. Pepper insisted. “You did send the NDAs, right?”

The hardness of her tone made you flinch, and you spoke before thinking about what could happen.

“Actually… I asked Natalie to hold off on that. I wanted to double check the IP section but completely forgot about it. I’m sorry, Pepper”

“Ok, it’s fine” the woman said, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Just make sure it’s ready before the presentation”

You nodded, and turned to walk down the hall to find the documents. Natalie followed right behind you, and you almost didn’t hear the quiet thank you she whispered your way.

“Don’t mention it”

Truly, you had forgotten all about it by the next day, until you found a latte waiting at your desk.

It was exactly how you took it, and you were very particular about your coffee.

“How…?” you wondered out loud.

“I notice things” Natalie said from the doorway. You flinched, amazed at how stealth she could be.

“And you’re silent. Like a ninja. Or a spy” you drank again, chuckling at the ridiculous comparison. “You didn’t have to, I didn’t do anything”

“This job is very important so it does mean something to me, Y/N”

The way she said your name had you blushing, so you nodded and thanked her.

“Have you noticed the bar around the subway station?” you asked as she turned to leave. “Great food, pool table. It’s fun, if you ever want to stop by”

“Oh, you don’t want to play pool against me” she warned and you chuckled.

And yet, the next week you were both there, eating and drinking past midnight. Natalie wasn’t kidding when she said her aim was impeccable and when you lost the third game in a row, you admitted defeat and offered to buy her coffee and a scone of her choice the day after that.

That’s how it became a bit of a habit, to buy coffee for two on certain mornings. If you knew Natalie had an early morning, you’d be the one to drop off a steaming cup of espresso with a danish scone.

Sometimes, you’d find a cup from the cafe around the corner, your name and a smile srcibbled across it.

You were working overtime to convince yourself that you did not have feelings for her. That the nights at the bar, the coffee or lunch time you spent together was nothing more than a friendship.

Until one night, when you were both working late. Your desk was a mess of scattered paperwork, all thanks to Tony’s idiotic actions. Pepper was the new CEO of Stark Industries while he made mess after mess.

“God, I hate him” you read a complaint filed by the police against Tony, who had gotten drunk and worn his suit during his birthday party.

There was also another thing that bothered you about that night. The memory of Natalie, all laughs and flirty eyes as Tony showed her how the suit worked.

You hadn’t realised how hard you were biting the pen until Natalie called your name.

“You have ink all over your lip” she said with a smile and you brought a hand to your mouth, the liquid leaving a bitter taste.

“Oh my God, is the ink toxic? Am I gonna die?” you panicked, looking around for a napkin. Natalie giggled, approaching with a hankerchief.

“It’s fine. Here” the redhead leaned forward, and you blushed as her soft hands cleaned your lower lip. Natalie held your chin between her thumb and index finger, satisfied with the result.

“Thanks” you said, unable to keep your eyes from going to her lips. The action wasn’t lost on Natalie, and before you could apologize, she leaned forward, capturing your lips in a searing kiss.

“Now you have ink too” you said, laughing at the small stain on her lip. She smiled against your mouth, but the happinness was short lived as an explosion made you look outside. “Wow. What the hell was that?" you said, turning around.

It looked like drones were chasing after an Iron Man suit. Natalie grumbled and stood up.

"I have to go"

"Nat?" you followed her down the hallway.

The woman was gone, an apologetic look on her eyes as the elevator doors shut.

—

No calls, no messages, nothing. Not even an email.

You asked IT to keep her account active, just in case.

It had been a whole year; and maybe time to give up hope.

You couldn’t shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong. Natalie had disappeared right after Vanko had tried to kill Tony. Maybe she’d gotten hurt and someone was covering it up?

Whatever it was, the few times you asked Tony about it, he seemed irritated and quickly changed the subject.

And yet, here you were, still looking for answers, resisting the urge to give up on someone who had, for all intents and purposes, ghosted you.

You sighed, turning to look out the window of your office.

Imagine your shock when you saw a fleet of alien ships flying around New York City.

—

Natasha’s eyes were trained on Stark Tower. Were you there? Had you been able to get somewhere safe?

“Romanoff” Rogers called and she looked around.

“Need a lift” she said, creating a plan. All she had to do was take a small detour to your office and then she’d kick Loki’s stupid ass.

However, as she threw the alien off his own ship, she looked around and realised there was no easy way to land.

“Oh, God!” you shouted as a ship crashed through your window. To your surprise, instead of a weird looking creature, it was being flown by…

“Natalie?” you practically screamed, sure that you were having a fever dream.

“Come on, there’s no time. Let’s take you somewhere safe…”

“The whole city is under attack, that’s kind of impossible right now” you yelled, following her closely. “And what the hell is going on with you? Where have you been? And why are you dressed like that?”

It was hard not to notice the tight unitard that adjusted perfectly to every curve in her body.

“Watch out!” the woman said, pushing you aside. She rounded the corner, preparing her guns and shooting against the aliens. Turning casually to you, she spoke in a calm demeanor, as if discussing what movie to watch. “Would you like the short or long story, detka?”

“I don’t think we have time for long stories, Natalie. Is your real name even Natalie?”

“Well, it’s Natasha Romanoff so… close enough?” she said with a weak smile and you glared.

An arrow flew by and Natasha cursed under her breath. You understood why a second later when an explosion shook the building.

“Clint! I’m at Stark Tower, do not engage!” Natasha held a hand to her ear, speaking through comms. She then turned to you and smiled, leading you by the hand to the emergency stairs. “Where were we?”

“Natasha Romanoff. I guess you’re not a paralegal either… oh my God!” you yelled as you spotted a giant green creature coming up the stairs.

“Hulk, Rogers needs back up” Natasha said, completely unfazed by the monster. “Come here” she asked, taking you to a hallway.

“Nat, a bunch of crazy shit is happening and you’re not losing your mind”

“Well, there’s your next answer. I’m a former assassin, born and raised in Russia. Now a SHIELD agent” once the coast was clear, she made you stand up and follow her to the conference room. “I was working undercover to get some info about Tony’s stupid ass. And then I met you. I was about to ask you out on a date because I like you, but the mission was over and I was instructed not to engage again”

“You like me?” you repeated, ignoring the explosions around the city.

“Out of all the things I just said, that’s the one you’re sticking with?”

“Well, duh. Because I like you too” you smiled, pulling her closer for a kiss.

“Now’s not the time” a metallic voice said. You turned to find Tony floating outside the window and you glared. “I was called for an extraction”

“What?”

“Come on, it’s not safe here. Tony will get you out and I’ll meet you once this is over, ok?”

“You better not disappear on me again, Natasha Romanoff”

“Wouldn’t dream of it” she promised.

Once Tony carried you to a safe part of the city, you waited for him to put you down and remove his helmet to slap the back of his head.

“Why?”

“I asked you about her a million times, Tony. You could have told me why she left so suddenly”

“Now you know. I’ll get you a nice restaurant reservation to make up for it. Gotta go!”

As he flew away, you couldn’t help but smile.

Natasha liked you back.

—

Dust settled and emergency services began to approach the city, aiding with evacuation. Your eyes searched Natasha’s as you walked around.

“Detka”

“Are you ok?” running up to her, you brought your hands to her face. She had a small cut in her forehead and seemed tired, but she was alive.

“Yeah. It was fun”

“Fun? I hope our date doesn’t include this type of fun.”

The woman laughed and pulled you close to her.

"Alien invasions are a six month anniversary kind of thing" she joked. You laughed, but kept your eyes on her cut, looking concerned. “I’m ok, really. Nothing a shower won’t fix”

“How about a kiss?” you offered and she smiled, leaning forward to meet your lips; it was short and sweet. A promise of more to come.

“Let’s go back to my place” you said and Natasha’s eyes widened. “For you to shower. Clean that cut, get some sleep. And then, we’ll talk about that date”

“You have yourself a deal”