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biwitchenergyz · 9 hours ago

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That Thing Called Love

This is the final part of this story! Thank you for all the love! There will be one more story in this series, but that will be a one-shot set during Sinners.

Warning! Smut, Mentions of the Klan, and mentions of death. Also, a super long chapter!

Translations- Mo Dhia= My god, Mo chroí= My heart, and Táim i ngrá leat = I'm in love with you

Pa might have been right, you considered, I don’t know when to shut up.

“What ya’ thinking about?” Remmick questioned, folding your clothes with tender hands, scared to mess up or overstep. You never thought your childhood bed could fit a grown adult, especially not a man, but Remmick fit perfectly. Just as well as he fit into everything else in your life.

“Just think it's funny, I've been calling it Remmy’s room and now it really is.” You’ve never seen him smile the way he does at your words. He grins from ear to ear, exposing his beautiful, fanged teeth that you know would slice your flesh with the gentlest touch. Your heart flutters: this is what comes of your lack of self-control.

Four nights ago, about three weeks after you first met your little crow, Remmick came knocking on the door as was routine. He was covered in dust, looking adorably disheveled, and he explained that he had fallen through the roof while working on the old mill house, which he had found a few miles away.

Although you laughed at him, taunting as he called it, you suggested he just stay with you. Naturally, he refused and argued against it for two days before falling through the roof again and returning to you like a desperate dog.

It was a reasonable arrangement; the two of you had grown to be friends. Before moving in, he visited nearly every night, staying up and talking for hours before he decided it was time for you to go to sleep, even when you protested. Occasionally, you cooked for him when he had enough blood in his veins to enjoy the pleasures of humanity.

Those were his favorite nights because he got to stand in the kitchen with you, talking about everything and nothing, sometimes singing together as he tried to lure you from the stove to dance with him. If he asked, he’d get the chance to cook with you, even though it was mainly him grabbing whatever you pointed out. After dinner, you let him help you with the dishes, and it almost always turned into a water fight.

You expected living together wouldn’t be much different. Except you forgot about the tension. Always whispering in the background, licking at you like flames. A touch that lingered, words too soft to repeat, and glances that bordered lust. Even the most innocent of moments held something deeper. Remmick folded your clothes along with his, intimate and domestic. You wondered if this was how newlyweds felt.

There was something darker growing between the two of you. Hidden by the light of your budding relationship and potential feelings. Possession was in every shadow, it was in the way you combed his hair as you pulled him closer, it was there when he pulled you into his lap in the name of companionship as you wrote spell after spell. Not that you minded it, you craved his obsession for it fueled your own.

“Gonna sit with me, sugar?” That insufferable nickname. You were willing to bet that Remmick kept a detailed list in his mind of all the nicknames he could call you. He knew exactly when to use them against you, and he always knew which one would make you the weakest. As requested, you join him on the bed.

“How was the market? Is Annie doing well?” Remmick never said it out loud, but he loved to hear about your day. He didn’t care about humans or their woes, but he did care about you. If you loved something, he would try his hardest not to destroy it beneath his withering touch. If the sun weren't so cruel, he would spend every day with you from morning to night.

“Annie is good, she still wants me to talk to Benny Boy.” You don't notice how Remmick falters. “I got more blackberries, thought I could use them for a little kitchen witchcraft! I found a recipe for blackberry muffins in my ma’s spellbook, supposed to be good for protection. I’ll always remember her in the kitchen telling me what ingredients would cast a love spell, and which would bring us luck.”

Remmick wanted to kiss you. He found it increasingly hard to stop himself, especially when you told him things that he knew were special to you, things that had a place in your heart. “Sounds nice, darlin’. I’ve been wonderin’ if your putting love spells in your food or maybe it's just too damn good.” You glow under his praise; he notices it. He notices everything about you.

A car horn interrupts your conversation. Only one person would be honking outside your house this close to sundown. You left Remmick, going to the front door and cracking the shutters to peek outside. Benny’s slick black car was approaching your house. You could strangle him, but the press of Remmick's chest against your back reminded you there were more important things to deal with.

You turned to him, shocked that he had followed you and even more stunned at how close he got as he attempted to look over your shoulder without being caught by the eager sun. You wondered if it was normal to feel so safe with a man cornering you and your back against a wall. You knew it was deranged, but it made warmth flood your stomach.

“It’s just Benny.” You're so grateful that the sun is still up and Remmick is trapped in the darkness of your home, all the windows closed and a million of your ritual candles lit. “Stay inside, suns not down yet. Besides, he ain’t no threat.”

Remmick disagrees; in his opinion, your ex-fiancé is the biggest threat in his life right now. More threatening than a thousand suns and a million vampire hunters. It’s not his place; he won’t leave the house or hurt the man. Only restricting himself because it is what you asked of him. His blood, technically the blood of some foolish Klansmen whom he’d drunk from and gutted, boils within him.

You are about to open the door, but Remmick stops you, holding out your robe so you can cover your body, clad in nothing but a lacy nightgown. Earlier in the day, he had flushed like a tomato when you stepped out of the bathroom in the sheer fabric, but he was getting used to your nightwear.

You took the robe, wrapping it tightly around your waist. Recently, you’d found yourself dressing in your most intimate nightgowns just to watch Remmick struggle. You liked the hunger in his eyes, the way he scratched the back of his neck, and his flushed face. You especially liked how he clawed into his thighs to stop himself from touching you.

“Hell, you doing out here so late, Benny Boy?” You make a point of shutting the door behind you. Benny climbs out of his car, handsome and lean. He flashes you a dimpled smile. Once upon a time, you would have fallen into his arms just because of the gesture. His skin, dark and soft, glows like yours in the setting sun. It's subtle yet charming.

“Annie told me she worries you're mighty lonely out here. Least I could do was check on you.” It’s sweet, it’s his nature. You meet in the middle of the yard, exchanging a side hug that isn't awkward but isn't intimate. He’s a good Christian man, but you weren’t what he wanted.

“She’s supposed to worry about me! She’s my sister after all. But ain’t no reason for you to go out of your way to see me! Still, I appreciate that you did.” Benny has a boyish charm, shy and awkward. It reminds you of when you first started hanging out with Remmick. It’s cute on a boy, but Remmick has proven himself to be much more than that. The occasional charm is endearing, but he has moments that are so serious and raw that it makes you fidget under his gaze.

“You alright? You look a little red.” Benny jokes, thinking his presence has affected you when all you can think of is the man probably pouting in a corner behind you right now. You nod faster than necessary.

“I’m fine, Benny! You should head back home now,” you try to nudge him to his car, but he doesn't move. He studies your face, not like Remmick does; there's no adoration or awe in his gaze.

“I’ve missed ya’. Annie’s doing good now, there’s no need for you to put your life on hold anymore.” You wish he would shut up, your eyes beg him to stop, but he doesn't notice or doesn't care. “Let’s get married. Have a house and a family like we always wanted, before it's too late.” Even now, he considers his dreams as your own.

“I don’t want that. I love ya’, Benny. You will always be important to me, and you’re an amazing man, but my future can’t be like yours. If it does, I guarantee I'll end up like my mother.”

“Why? I don’t understand.”

“Because I ain’t in love with ya’. Maybe I never was. You want a big family, with a bunch of kids all running a farm and attending church every Sunday. There ain’t nothing wrong with it. In fact, I think it's beautiful, but God, Benny, I don’t want that. I don’t know what I want, but it's not that and it ain’t you.”

Benny listened, for possibly the first time, and when you went quiet, he nodded like he expected every word. He pulled you into a hug, warm and welcoming, then pulled away. “I think you're makin’ a mistake. I hope you're happy, I do.” Then he turned to hop into his car.

A weight lifted from you, maybe it was the weight of his love, but you felt surer of yourself than you had in over five years. You made your way back to the house, hearing Benny’s car start with a growl. When you opened the door, Remmick pulled you into his arms.

It was nothing like Benny’s hug. It yearned, promised, and comforted like nothing ever had. You fold against him, forgetting to close the door, forgetting that Benny hadn’t driven off yet, forgetting that the sun couldn’t reach Remmick's skin from just beyond the threshold. “Táim i ngrá leat.” You didn’t understand the foreign words, but you nuzzled into his arms nonetheless, glowing red eyes hidden from your view.

Benny put the car in reverse, taking one last look at your retreating figure. He watched a white man pull you into his arms with the sincerity and desperation of a lover. The man looked up, staring right through Benny with eyes like shadows and embers. This man, this devil, closed the door behind you, and Benny didn't look back.

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“The whole Delta is talking about it! At the market today, all the church ladies came up to me asking if you was dating the damn Grand Dragon!” Annie dropped her bag on your table, barging in just as Remmick shut the bedroom door behind him. You knew he could hear her; you imagined the disgust on his face at the absurd statement.

“I don’t have the slightest clue what you’re talking about.” Annie took a seat, watching you stir your bowl as you peered down at your mother's spellbook. Blackberries stained the beige batter as you stirred it together.

“Benny Boy told me he came by to see you. Said he watched a white man cradle you in his arms as if you were his wife!” You didn't know who you wanted to hit more—Benny for starting the rumor or Remmick for giving him a reason to.

“If Benny only told you, then how does the whole Delta know?” You tiptoed around Annie's statement, not willing to acknowledge what Benny saw.

“Well, he told Baby Bee as well.” You frowned, wiping the flour off your nightgown. You hadn’t dressed for company.

“Then that bastard wanted it to get out! Everyone knows Baby Bee would tell your whole life story to the Klan just for the hell of it.” To be fair, you liked his sister. Beatrice was the youngest of Benny’s siblings, and she had earned the nickname Baby Bee even though you figured it should have been Blabber Bee.

“Who is he?” Annie was tired of your game. You didn’t have to ask what she was talking about; you already knew.

“Just a friend, Annie. Besides, he’s Irish.”

“That only makes him whiter to me.” She retorted, making you giggle despite the glare on her face. “Don’t laugh. This is serious. If word got to the wrong person that you were messin’ around with a white man, lord help us.” You felt a little bad for worrying your sister so much, but then again, Annie was a natural at it.

“We ain’t messin’ around. He’s my friend, and Benny had no right to slander my name.” You set the muffin mix down and rest a tender hand on Annie’s shoulder. “Don’t let them wrap you up in this. Their gossip is my burden to bear.”

“Tell me something about him,” Annie watched your eyes as she made her plea. “I just, I need to hear it.” You weren’t sure what she was getting at. You thought it over in your head, whatever you said would be heard by the man himself, and you didn’t want to expose any feelings you might have hidden beneath the surface. You also didn’t want Annie to think Remmick was no good.

“He’s kind. Not in the way that everyone's supposed to be kind. It’s natural with him, like he knows the right things to do or say, and he just does them. He ain’t always good to everyone, but he tries to be for me, I think.” Annie sighs, quietly yet meaningfully. She doesn't ask you to stop. “He’s a strange man, but I guess that's why we get on so well.”

Your sister rests her head against her hands. Exhaustion pours from her demeanor, and you wonder if you’ve said too much or too little. Then she looks at you with hopeless eyes and whispers, “I was scared it’d be like this. I was scared you’d be in love with him.”

She continues to say something, you hear her voice but can’t grasp the words. Everything felt out of touch as you tried not to panic; the fear of what this could mean ate at your heart. You weren't in love with a vampire. You weren't in love with Remmick. “No,” it's a breathless whisper. You imagined him in the other room. You see him jumping through the window, smoke flying from him as he bolts for the trees. Or maybe he's resting his head against the door, heart beating like it never has before. If you hoped it was the latter, would that mean Annie was right?

“Enough of all this nonsense. Get on home, Ann. I’m trying to do a spell, and I can’t do it with all these silly notions of love and whatnot.” Huffing, your sister takes her bag, gives you one last look, then slams the front door shut until you're alone in a kitchen lit by candles instead of the sun that pleads for entrance.

The bowl clatters on the counter as you drop it from your hands. Leo startles at the sound before taking gentle sips of water, ignoring your deep breaths. The bedroom door creaks open; you can’t look at him. You turn with your back digging into the counter and your hands covering your eyes. You aren’t helpless or sorrowful, you're frustrated.

If Annie was this scandalized by you loving a white man, what would she say if she knew he wasn't human? He was a dead man, a being of evil with a hunger for your flesh and blood. That very man, cursed and damned, wrapped his hands around your waist with the gentlest touch as he lifted you onto the counter, giving your weary legs a break as he settled between them.

“You ain't mad at me, are you, sugar?” You shake your head, easing his fears of your anger. “Need you to look at me, Darlin’.” Remmick pleaded, pulling your hands away from your eyes. You looked at him, disgruntled tears blurring the handsome lines of his face.

“I fucked up, Remmy. I really fucked up.” He cups your heated cheeks between his hands, analyzing every light and twitch in your eyes. Leo rubbed against Remmick's ankle but pranced off to the other room, planning to fall asleep on the warm laundry.

“What did ya’ do, baby?” Remmick stroked your tears away with the pads of his thumbs. So tender and loving, it broke you a little more. You couldn’t crumble for this man. He was not someone to be desired; he should have been immune to human emotions and off-limits to your heart.

“ I-I care for someone whose heart doesn't beat the same as mine and whose skin ain’t the same color.” You regained a bit of control, no more tears threatening to run down your cheeks, just sheer disappointment in yourself and the path you've taken. “Annie could be right, and if she is, then I’m the biggest fool in Mississippi.”

“Are you mad that I’m dead, or are you more upset ‘cause my skin ain’t like yours?” You were shaking your head, freeing your face from his loving hands. He didn’t get it—a thousand years and still a fool.

“People have died for less, Remmy. If you were a woman and I were a man, I’d be dead by now. Suppose the Klan hears about this, it ain’t just me that they’d kill. Every person of color in the area would suffer for my mess.”

He pulls your head into his chest, trying to say something that would ease your worries. Remmick knows the price for this. He remembers when couples like you were first persecuted. Over the years, he has learned one solid truth: death is the only way to end the divide.

“I’ll kill 'em all, sugar. Burn the world if that's what it takes. I’ll raise an army for ya’ and we’ll slaughter them where they stand. Nothin’ on this damned earth is gonna keep me from what I want.” It should scare you how easily he discussed killing everyone in his path, but it lit a fire within you. Powerlessness was a retched feeling, it curled in you like a cottonhead snake. With Remmick, there was power like you’d never known.

“Townsfolk are gonna call me a traitor. They think I’m fooling around with the devil.” It's embarrassing to admit.

“Well, that ain't true. We ain’t foolin’ around.” He’s playful and endearing, and you know you love him.

“I’m not sure about that.” You sigh, lips so close to his own. Remmick’s brain doesn't have time to process your words before your lips press against his own, and he feels as though his mind has gone cloudy. You push gently against him, trying to show your feelings in one kiss.

Remmick always had something to say, always had a funny retort or a sassy response. Now all he had was his mouth as he sought after yours, passionate and rough. Like a man doomed to death, he moans against you as though he has tasted salvation; he has, and it is your lipstick mixed with the blackberries you ate before Annie broke your peace. Your lips tasted of sin and eternal life; he was tempted to bow his head in prayer.

“I’ll do whateva’ you want,” Remmick moaned into you. “I’ll kill every Klan member this side of the Mississippi.” His hips pushed into the cabinets under the counter as your hand came around his neck, gripping until he felt lightheaded. “Or I won’t leave the house. I’ll wither away in here, and you can keep me as you’d like. Ain’t nobody would find out.”

“Why would you do that, Remmy?” You know why, your lips find his jawline, and you press them there, leaving a red print when you pull back. It matches the shade found on his lips. The world buzzes around you, for every breath Remmick takes, you do the same, matching his breathing with precision.“Why would you act like a dog tryna’ please his master?”

“Because I am.” He whined, his hands digging into your hips as you left lipstick prints all over his face. “I’ll be ya’ dog or ya’ slave, it makes no difference to me. Call me and I’ll come. Tell me to bite, and I’ll make the Delta run red. Just don’t make me leave again, sugar. Anything but that.”

You burned with it, the power he placed in your hand. A simple turn of your thumb, life and death were at your control. He would kill as you saw fit, lay waste to cities and towns if it pleased you. Behind the goofy and boyish facade was an ancient being who had survived purely through violence, lived through wars and famine, and had thrived as others dropped dead. The press of his skin against your own was proof of his violence, his ability to survive in a world that wished him dead.

Suddenly, it was clear, he wandered the Earth looking for something or someone who could make him bow, and you were that divine being whom he’d bleed for. Men have always needed something to kill for; it's why they created their gods and their myths. They sought out violence like second nature, and in his search, Remmick had found his savior, the reason for his eternal suffering, and the cure for it all.

“Get on your knees, baby.” Your voice broke through his cloudy mind as you pulled your lips away from his own. With his face turned upwards, his gaze held your own as he descended to his knees, the beginning of his prayer. “You hungry, love? You look starved.” His hands rested on his knees, held together in reverence as you lifted one side of your nightgown, baring the flesh of your thigh. “Go on, feast.”

His tongue traced your thighs, searching for the veins hidden behind your deep flesh. When he found the one he wanted, the femoral vein within your inner thigh, his fangs pressed against you. He didn’t break the skin; instead, he watched your face, partially hidden behind the curve of your breasts. Gently, he broke your skin, feeling the warmth of your body as it welcomed his fangs inside. Warm blood rushed to greet him like an old friend.

He could not remember all the people he drank from. There must have been at least a million faces lost to time. You would not be one of them. The flavor of you, metallic and salty, fed him like a home-cooked meal. Remmick swore he’d never tasted someone as good. Perhaps it was because you were you and he'd already been obsessed, or maybe you were naturally divine.

Your back arched across the counter, head slamming back and aching from the sharp movement, before you pulled yourself upwards. You wouldn’t call it pleasurable; it felt like two sharp knives buried in your skin, but the sounds that fell from Remmick’s mouth brought satisfaction to your stomach. He whined and whimpered, pelvis thrusting against the cabinets. You watched his eyes when he looked at you, for once, you were able to witness the change set in. Those adoring navy blue eyes of his darkened in front of you, turning to pools of coal.

Grasping at his hair, you push him further into your thigh. “Drink up, baby.” He does just as you say. When he’s filled with you, he laps at your wounded thigh. The pulsing pain in your leg is hard to ignore until Remmick’s tongue traces further up, no longer focused on his bite mark.

Slowly, his tongue pushes against the fabric of your panties, nudging them away from your heat. His nose brushed against the hood of your clit. Instantly, your back arched off the counter as you mewled at the touch. As soon as the sound left your mouth, he was looking at you, his chest heaving with every deep breath.

“Fuck.” Remmick groaned, instantly reaching for the top of your underwear as he yanked it down your legs, brushing your bite wound and making your legs jolt. He looks at your bare cunt, panting like a dog in summer. “Can I? Sugar, please, I need to taste ya’.” You just barely nod before his mouth begins to leave a hot trail up to where you need him the most.

His lips suckle at your clit, a feeling you’ve never experienced before and it makes your body tingle like it’s coming to life for the first time. His tongue joins in on the torture, licking circles around you. Your hands dig into his hair with the force to rip it out, but when you catch yourself being too rough, you are quick to stroke his head in an attempt to pet the pain away.

Praises leave your throat like sobs. You tell him how good he is, how you adore him, and how he will be yours. The praise makes his tongue move quicker, more deliberate, and intentional. You’d never experienced anything like it, not to say you hadn’t explored your body before, but this was different. Your muscles spasmed, and your head bobbed up and down like you were in a drunken daze.

Your legs wrapped around Remick's head, falling uselessly against his shoulders. He didn’t mind the weight of you on him, instead, he gripped your hips and pulled you closer to him, dragging you closer to the edge of the counter. The grip of his hands around your waist and the deeper feeling of his tongue against your clit, sent you over the edge you didn’t realize you were on. Mindlessly mumbling compliments and lovestruck remarks as you felt yourself gushing against Remmick’s skilled tongue.

Standing up, Remmick, held your head so that you wouldn't drop it against the hard counter. His hands gently cupped your hair and petted you as you came down from your high. He bent to nuzzle his nose into your neck as your breath left you in shaky pants. “You’re so good to me, sugar.” His smooth voice met your ears as he caressed you.

With buzzing fingers, you pulled yourself off the countertop, landing on shaky legs. Remmick steadied you with a hand to your back and the other on your waist. “Wanna come to my room, baby?” You asked him, looking up with enchanting eyes that he could never say no to. Your blood flows through his veins, he feels you coursing within him, warming him and flooding his arousal.

Instead of answering, he captured your lips within his own. His mouth was softer than a petal as it moved against yours, consuming and gentle as though he were savoring the feel of your stained lips against his own. When he pulled away, you licked where he was and could taste a combination of your arousal and blood on him.

Pulling him by one hand, you lead him into your bedroom. It is the only room in your small home that he had never been in, he’d never dared cross the threshold that would be completely you and all-consuming. As you led him through the door, he knew he had passed the point of no return.

Your room was the personification of your soul. With hanging plants, two small shelves filled with books, a few candles, clusters of crystals, and most importantly, pictures that spoke to your love and heart. As you sat on the violet-clad bed, Remmick traced his hands along your few but important belongings.

Some pictures featured you and Annie, another showed you with her and two men who were twins. All the photos were secured by dark wooden frames except for one. He didn’t need to ask who the people were; he knew by the way your younger self was grinning. Annie and you, clearly children, with arms wrapped around one another. Standing behind you two, in front of the wooden cabin, was a man and a woman. Both of them were smiling, he noticed your features in them, and the whole picture screamed joy. That's probably why you’d chosen a more expensive, silver frame to hold the memory.

“You gonna keep starin’ or you gonna come over here?” Remmick turned to look at you when your playful voice broke the silence. You were lying against the bed, back lifted by pillows, while the silk of your nightgown kept slipping from your shoulder and hiking up your thighs. He’d seen every wonder of the world, every perfectly sculpted statue and acclaimed painting. Nothing could compare to the sight of you, disheveled and relaxed in your bed. He jumped you without a second thought.

A knee pressed between your parted legs, as his clawed hand wrapped around your throat. With a gentle squeeze, your breath stuttered, and your mind went blank. Remmick's gentle lips pressed against your face, caressing your skin at every spot they touched before colliding with your own. It was hungry and frantic as your lips locked together, your body buzzing from the excitement. Your hands crept under Remmick’s freshly washed wife-beater, feeling the softness of his stomach and the muscles of his chest as his heart pounded against your hand.

“Mo dhia,” He whispered as you tried to chase his retreating lips. One of your hands buries into his dark curls as the other trails from his heart to the little patch of black hair leading past his belt buckle, and you follow it blindly.

“Mo dhia, don't stop.” You obeyed him, slowly tracing him through the fabric of his briefs. Stroking and teasing, you gulped at the realization that he was bigger than you expected. As you continue to palm him, he whimpers out words you don’t understand, but you know must be his native tongue.

“Mo chroí, I need you. Need you more than anything.” Instead of answering, your hand that has been tugging at his hair, clasps around his neck to pull his lips down to yours. Grinning into the kiss, you pull him out of his briefs so you can slowly start pumping him. He groans against your lips as you wipe your palm over his leaking tip to add wetness while you stroke him.

Remmick forces himself to pull away from the warmth of your body. “Can’t wait, mo chroí.” He whines as he pulls his remaining clothes off, leaving him bare above your scantly clad form. Watching you with loving eyes, Remmick slowly lifts the dress from your figure before tossing it aside with his clothes.

“So beautiful. Imma’ make us one,” he begins as he parts your thighs with his strong hands. “Is that what ya’ want, sugar? Wanna be joined with me forever?" There is tenderness in his voice, his weeping cock is lined at your entrance, but he holds himself back waiting for your titillating voice to answer him.

“Forever,” you keen as he pushes into you. Slowly intertwining the two of you, inch by inch. He bottoms out, kissing the tears that fall from your eyes. You didn’t realize you were crying, you weren't in pain, but in a way, you were.

You never knew what it meant to be connected so deeply with someone; you watched from the outside as Annie and your friends fell deeply in love and had those feelings reciprocated. Sure, you loved Benny, but that was merely acceptance and contentment. This, this was passion like you’d never known, yet you could feel the weight of your love being returned in full. His heartbeat against your chest was proof.

“Fuck, I-I gotta move now, sugar.” You nod feverishly, begging him to. Slowly, you feel emptiness within you, only to be hit with simmering pleasure as Remmick thrusts back into you, hitting a pleasure point that pulls a moan from your throat. He smiles, fangs and all, as he attempts to recreate that same movement.

You whimper dumbly against his neck as he snaps his hips into you, his lone hand that does not hold him above you, trails down your body until he finds that special spot on top of your pussy. With every sensual thrust, he rubs your clit with an equally strong pressure.

The intoxicating throbbing of Remmick moving perfectly within you leaves your skin tingling. He attempts to place loving kisses along your neck, but they are sloppy, needier than expected. As he rests his sweating head against your chest, he notices the way your breasts rise and fall and how your nipples press into his chest with every lift. Gently, he leaves your swollen clit to focus on tracing the hardened peaks. He squeezes your breast, delighting in the way your flesh spills from his hands. You grasp at his hair, squeezing hard enough to make him mewl into your neck.

“Táim i ngrá leat.” The pressure in your stomach unravels like a ball of yarn. You feel him and nothing else, the world falls beneath your feet as you call his name until your throat hurts. Remmick whispers those words, over and over again, grinding into you until you feel him spasming within you. He cries into your neck, your name falls from his tongue, a desperate prayer. Your body goes limp within his arms, he holds you as you collapse.

“Ya’ okay, pretty baby?” Remmick whispers as he pulls out of you, his hot spend flooding out of you and coating your trembling thighs. The ringing in your ears stops, letting in the loving tone of Remmick's deep voice. His strong arms wrap around your waist, pulling you on top of him as he relaxes into your bed. His hands trace circles into your hip bones while he hums a familiar tune. The very song you sang the night you found him.

“Those words, tim leat or somethin’, ya’ said it before. What’s it mean?” You rest your arms around his shoulders, twirling his dark curls with your fingers. He nudges your forehead with his own, lovingly bumping into you as his humming quiets down. Your eyes meet.

“I am in love with you.” It’s a statement, an answer, and a promise all wrapped into one sentence. Remmick smiles when your eyes water, his fangs poking out from behind his kiss swollen lips. You repeat his words, whispering them over and over as Remmick chastely kisses your temple.

“I’m in love with ya, too.” You giggle as his stubble tickles the side of your face. Leo meows at the door, not entering the room but making his presence known. In a whirlwind, Remmick pulls the violet blankets until they cover your nude bodies. Only then do you call Leo into the room. He lands on the bed with a thump, takes one look at the two of you, then curls up with a huff. His disinterest makes both of you laugh, curling up into each other's arms again as you plot how to tell Annie the truth without giving her an aneurysm.

#remmick x reader #remmick x you #remmick sinners #sinners fanfiction #sinners x reader #fanfic readers #remmick

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serensama · 22 hours ago

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Thursday Bangers: Dr, Who?

I love you @woundedsoul12 for this amazing game you've created <3 Rules for your Copy and Paste: Free form a blurb or drawing based on the weekly lyrics prompt. It doesn't have to include the prompt just whatever you're inspired to write, write it! Then tag some friends so they can play as well. It doesn't have to be finished on Thursday just post it whenever you can (you have a whole week between Thursdays).

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Baby I'm so into you Darling, if you only knew All the things that flow through my mind - Fantasy Mariah Carey

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Neve was a patient woman; she would wait until Lilya was ready to talk before saying anything. She had to be willing to wait in her profession; not all cases were open and shut within a day. Unfortunately, some cases took months to crack. This latest stuff with Aelia and Dock Town… urgh… No. She was not going to think about that witch any more than she had to. The detective wrapped her arms around Lilya, who was lightly shivering in the evening air, the autumn chill biting through her even with the tequila swimming through her veins, the two women huddling together for warmth, reminding Neve of their late nights trawling through different clubs in their youth and never remembering to wear jackets. Apparently, neither had grown wiser as they grew older.

Lilya pressed her cheek against Neve’s as she tightened her hold around her waist, desperate to siphon every bit of her friend’s body heat for herself, ignoring the way the taller woman laughed at her. “I can’t believe I did that, that was just so humiliating.” Neve squeezed Lilya in return and comfortingly rubbed her back. “Oh, don’t worry, no one else noticed. Everyone’s too wrapped up in their own stuff to worry about anyone else.” “But I know what I did, I’ll remember it,” she whined, burying her face in her friend’s collar. “Impulse control- gone. Reasoning- non-existent. Judgment- fucked from here to kingdom come. You should just put me in solitary for the next year and let me think about what I’ve done for a good long time, to make sure I don’t go terrorising random innocent people at night and try to mount them.”

Neve snorted and pushed away from Lilya, the latter moaning the loss of warmth instantly. “People, you say. Well, those particular people, you somehow managed to entangle yourself with, in the blink of an eye, looked mighty similar there, Lil. Seems you got yourself a type.”

Lilya was half-tempted to stomp her foot like a petulant child, but she wasn’t quite that drunk yet. Sometimes she really hated Neve’s perspicacity and frankness; between her and Teia, she never had any peace. As good a reason as any to never let them hang out together.

“Is this because of that night you spent with that guy a while back? I remember you telling me he was all god-like bone structure, a smile that made you feel like he was already inside of you and so beautiful it made you want to cry whenever you thought about him,” she ribbed, lighting a cigarette and checking her phone to see how long their Uber would be. Her eyes flicked back up to Lilya, who had turned a vivid shade of pink as she recalled their conversation one week after their encounter.

“I told you that in confidence, whilst I was not exactly sober for your compassion, not for you to use as ammunition to call me out for fun at your leisure!”

“…Do you even realise who you’re talking to here, Lil?”

“I need new friends.”

“You need to get over this little infatuation of yours.”

“I was trying to, then you pulled the first guy away-”

“ He was my CI! A literal criminal, Lil!”

“He was quite gentlemanly for a criminal.”

“He’s a professional con-man.”

“Who can kiss.”

“The second one looked like he could, too-”

“He can.”

Neve paused. She was certain that she had stopped her from kissing that other handsome stranger. How could she possibly know… “Shit. Lilya… that second guy. That’s the guy, isn’t it? The one you’ve been trying to get over.” Her silence was all the answer she needed; the detective cackled at her friend’s obvious discomfort. “Oh, this is too good. Better than any trashy stories from back home, I am positively living . Please continue, give Aunty Neve all the sordid details of how he found you here and what you would have done if I hadn’t interrupted you. Leave nothing out. We have another 5 minutes before our ride is here.”

Lilya glowered at her, tempted to beat Neve to death with her own prosthetic- just to buy enough time to avoid revealing all the gritty particulars she’d been longing to share. Nonetheless, she knew she’d be dreaming of their almost-kiss for days to come. Her skin burned with the memory of his lips under her fingertips, along her ear, and the strength in his hands as he held her body to his. Her heart was already fluttering at the most basic of recollections. If she even dared to tell Neve the things she thought about him, what she wanted to do to him and with him? She’d probably come on the spot and then die from embarrassment. And if she didn’t, Neve would make sure to put her in the coffin herself with her never-ending, sarcastic quips. She had finally managed to string the words together to tell her to shut up and mind her own damn business when the very hands she’d been fantasising about brushed her shoulders and slid down her arms. Lilya’s eyes snapped to Neve to check if it was all in her head- but judging by her bugged-out stare, it wasn’t just some intense daydream.

“This won’t do,” he tutted against her temple, his fingers caressing the smooth skin along her biceps as he huffed out his approval. “You’re so cold, Doc. We can’t have that.” He trailed his fingertips down her arms, thrilled by the gooseflesh that rose at her nape. It took everything in him not to run his lips over it and up her neck, to make the rest of her body tingle with his kisses- but her friend looked like she’d probably burn his eyes out if he tried anything more than what she already allowed with her friend.

Illario shrugged off his jacket and carefully draped it over her shoulders, his hands running down the line of her arms once more, firmer, not meant to tease, but to remind her how he had touched her when they were alone. “Here you go, Doc. You need it more than I do. I’d offer you a ride home, but I doubt you’d accept it. I do hope you have a lovely evening.” He squeezed her hands, and she almost squeezed back, her cheek pressed against the lapel of his jacket, facing him but unable to look him in the eye. Dangerous things happened when she met his gaze.

Then, as quickly as he appeared, he was gone. He disappeared into his town car and did not even look back at her when they drove off.

Lilya pulled the large jacket around her frame and let herself take in the fading scent of his cologne and closed her eyes as flashes of their kiss earlier that day flooded her mind, how wonderful it felt to be back in his arms with his mouth on hers-

Neve stared at her friend, blinking blankly. She hadn’t seen her like this about a man since she had dated Ashur, the man who broke her heart to become a priest. By her glazed-over look alone, whatever the two shared was more explosive and intense than what Lilya had with the man she was convinced she’d marry. After things ended between them, the poor girl stopped dating and focused only on her career. Sure, there were casual flings, a friendly booty call whom she trusted enough to call upon whenever human contact was a necessity- but the look on her face screamed to Neve that this was not someone she was going to get over through willpower and abstinence from him alone.

“Oh my darling, Lilya. You went and done it.”

She looked up at Neve with confusion, her brows furrowing together as she continued to unconsciously revel in the scent of the man, her expression gradually softening the more she inhaled his scent from his collar. “Done what?”

“Gone and fallen for him, obviously.”

“Wha-no! I don’t even know the man, I can’t, you don’t just- I mean I certainly don’t - people don’t do this! A-Adults don’t do this!” she spluttered, growing increasingly flustered as her vehement denials piled up, her anxiety rising with a sharp sting of what she recognised as cognitive dissonance. “... Neve.”

The detective hushed her, extinguishing her cigarette with her heel and opened up her arms again for Lilya to snuggle back into her embrace. “Don’t worry, Lil, there are worse things than being head over heels for a guy like that.” “... There is?” she asked, her voice muffled between them. Neve nodded and smiled softly. “Mhmm. You could like them, and they could not know you exist. Or they know you exist, but just don’t care. Thankfully for you, that man, oh Lilya, that man looks like you’re the only thing that exists. And at the very least, I know that he has excellent taste in women… And clothes, this jacket is fabulous.”

Softly tagging: @kabsey @jenn2d2 @rookamell @mythals-whore @davrinsleftpectoral @thedissonantverses @himluv @hedwigoprah and anyone else who may want to play <3

#thursday bangers #illario dellamorte #Illario x rook #illarook #Neve Gallus #no edits we die like men #dragon age the veilguard #dragon age fanfic

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returntosunder · 2 days ago

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You know what? I'm just gonna share what I can/want on all of my AUs, one at a time. I spoke about UnderRough last time, so this time I'll share some little bits of...

(Just some of it, not ALL of it. Even then, prepare for a long rant.)

Inspiration: when I was first getting into the Undertale community, I was noticing a severe lack of AUs where Sans swaps with Asriel. Slowly, I came up with swaps for mostly the main characters (Sans, Papyrus, Undyne, Napstablook, etc). After aging and getting back into the fandom, I realized quite a few flaws (seeing how young I was when first making it) and decided to redo a few things. Now let's get into the actual AU.

Basics: as previously stated, UnderTear is a swap AU with unique differences. However, before we get into those differences, let's go over the basics.

The swaps are fully roleswap, yet only 25% personality swap.

Sans swaps with Asriel, Papyrus swaps with Undyne, Napstablook swaps with Alphys who swaps with Grillby, Muffet swaps with Mettaton, and Monster Kid swaps with the Scarf Mouse. (That's not every swap, just the main characters.)

Toriel and Asgore actually keep their roles stay the same, but swap personalities. Frisk and Chara aren't swapped at all. (Neither are plenty of the "NPCs")

Okay, now for some of the unique stuff~ (again, prepare for a huge bit of ranting.)

The Skelebros: Sans and Papyrus actually had parents before the war broke out. One of which, the father, was the brother of Aster. A few weeks after the war, neither of their parents made it underground. Aster, being the royal scientist, asked the Dreemurr's if they could care for Sans and Papyrus for him. (One, because Papyrus was still an infant, and two, because a dangerous is no place to raise children.) They humbly accepted seeing how Asriel would soon be born as well.

The Spiders and the Machine: seeing how Muffet replaces Mettaton, she would become the young star of the Underground. However, hidden behind the entertainer's life was her older cousin, Lizzie. She would be the one who helped raise Muffet and provide aid in her rise to stardom. Meanwhile, Mettaton would be a robot built and discarded by Aster years ago. Napstablook's cousin would eventually find the robot body, fix it up a bit, and use as the driving force behind a heavy metal rebellion against Muffet. (Said rebellion started because of Muffet and Napstablook continuously fighting for Papyrus. I have a post on my blog that explains where that started.)

The first Amalgamate: you may remember months ago I requested art of a character named Trajan. Well, here's some more info on him. In UnderTear, Mystery Man and Gaster are two entirely different characters. Trajan is the Mystery Man and WD G Aster is the Gaster. Trajan first applied for the soul experiment when he managed to defeat a human who attacked one of his other monster friends. Once he was injected with DT however, he quickly found out how horrible of an idea it was. Somehow, he would wake up in a void like area known only as the Darkness. (That's all I got on him right now, but I do have an ask blog around him. @asktrajan)

I'm just now realizing I'm reiterating things I've already talked about on my blog. And I don't wanna have to delete all that. So here's a quick detail that I haven't discussed before now: in UnderTear, the WD in Aster's name doesn't stand for Wingdings. At least not originally. At first, the WD stood for Wadeline. After Gaster fell into his creation though, he became distorted. Thus his font would switch to Wingdings. (Not sure what the G stood for though.)

PHEW. Ok. I think that's all I can handle typing. There's still plenty of stuff I haven't shared, but I'm saving that for my blog. Hope you're intrigued! X3

Ooo role swap au! I had to make a bunch of notes to visually see who is placed in what role cause my brain needs a visualizer lol. (Side not, im absolutely LOVING Muffet taking Mettatons place in this. They are both my faves and this is a fun mix ^^)

Sans and Papyrus being raised by the Dreemers is so flippin cute omg I love that ^^ and ya I remember trajan (ive looked into your blog too, but im gonna have to look through it again so I can have a refresher on his info ^^') ooo WD becoming Wingdings is after the incident is actually interesting, him having a different name before is really neat change to his story i love that!

Thanks for sharing what you have! I understand that saving info for your blog so im glad you can still share stuff here ^^

#sharing aus

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trojanteapot · 2 years ago

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I SAID I WOULD DO FANART OF IT.

I SAID I WOULD.

the prophecy has been fulfilled.

(original post but its a different thing now lol)

#infinity train #grace monroe #simon laurent #grimon #infinity train fanart #infinity train season 3 #infinity train book 3 #infinity train book three #mitski #mitski lyrics #i bet on losing dogs #i always try to draw grace on earth with a different hairstyle #because i think she would just get a different one every one or two weeks because she can #simon would help with the hair care of course #as he should #stuff i made #digital art

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victusinveritas · 3 months ago

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Story below the cut to avoid a paywall.

There was no explanation, no warning. One minute, I was in an immigration office talking to an officer about my work visa, which had been approved months before and allowed me, a Canadian, to work in the US. The next, I was told to put my hands against the wall, and patted down like a criminal before being sent to an Ice detention center without the chance to talk to a lawyer.

I grew up in Whitehorse, Yukon, a small town in the northernmost part of Canada. I always knew I wanted to do something bigger with my life. I left home early and moved to Vancouver, British Columbia, where I built a career spanning multiple industries – acting in film and television, owning bars and restaurants, flipping condos and managing Airbnbs.

In my 30s, I found my true passion working in the health and wellness industry. I was given the opportunity to help launch an American brand of health tonics called Holy! Water – a job that would involve moving to the US.

I was granted my trade Nafta work visa, which allows Canadian and Mexican citizens to work in the US in specific professional occupations, on my second attempt. It goes without saying, then, that I have no criminal record. I also love the US and consider myself to be a kind, hard-working person.

I started working in California and travelled back and forth between Canada and the US multiple times without any complications – until one day, upon returning to the US, a border officer questioned me about my initial visa denial and subsequent visa approval. He asked why I had gone to the San Diego border the second time to apply. I explained that that was where my lawyer’s offices were, and that he had wanted to accompany me to ensure there were no issues.

After a long interrogation, the officer told me it seemed “shady” and that my visa hadn’t been properly processed. He claimed I also couldn’t work for a company in the US that made use of hemp – one of the beverage ingredients. He revoked my visa, and told me I could still work for the company from Canada, but if I wanted to return to the US, I would need to reapply.

I was devastated; I had just started building a life in California. I stayed in Canada for the next few months, and was eventually offered a similar position with a different health and wellness brand.

I restarted the visa process and returned to the same immigration office at the San Diego border, since they had processed my visa before and I was familiar with it. Hours passed, with many confused opinions about my case. The officer I spoke to was kind but told me that, due to my previous issues, I needed to apply for my visa through the consulate. I told her I hadn’t been aware I needed to apply that way, but had no problem doing it.

Then she said something strange: “You didn’t do anything wrong. You are not in trouble, you are not a criminal.”

I remember thinking: Why would she say that? Of course I’m not a criminal!

She then told me they had to send me back to Canada. That didn’t concern me; I assumed I would simply book a flight home. But as I sat searching for flights, a man approached me.

“Come with me,” he said.

There was no explanation, no warning. He led me to a room, took my belongings from my hands and ordered me to put my hands against the wall. A woman immediately began patting me down. The commands came rapid-fire, one after another, too fast to process.

They took my shoes and pulled out my shoelaces.

“What are you doing? What is happening?” I asked.

“You are being detained.”

“I don’t understand. What does that mean? For how long?”

“I don’t know.”

That would be the response to nearly every question I would ask over the next two weeks: “I don’t know.”

They brought me downstairs for a series of interviews and medical questions, searched my bags and told me I had to get rid of half my belongings because I couldn’t take everything with me.

“Take everything with me where?” I asked.

A woman asked me for the name of someone they could contact on my behalf. In moments like this, you realize you don’t actually know anyone’s phone number anymore. By some miracle, I had recently memorized my best friend Britt’s number because I had been putting my grocery points on her account.

I gave them her phone number.

They handed me a mat and a folded-up sheet of aluminum foil.

“What is this?”

“Your blanket.”

“I don��t understand.”

I was taken to a tiny, freezing cement cell with bright fluorescent lights and a toilet. There were five other women lying on their mats with the aluminum sheets wrapped over them, looking like dead bodies. The guard locked the door behind me.

For two days, we remained in that cell, only leaving briefly for food. The lights never turned off, we never knew what time it was and no one answered our questions. No one in the cell spoke English, so I either tried to sleep or meditate to keep from having a breakdown. I didn’t trust the food, so I fasted, assuming I wouldn’t be there long.

On the third day, I was finally allowed to make a phone call. I called Britt and told her that I didn’t understand what was happening, that no one would tell me when I was going home, and that she was my only contact.

They gave me a stack of paperwork to sign and told me I was being given a five-year ban unless I applied for re-entry through the consulate. The officer also said it didn’t matter whether I signed the papers or not; it was happening regardless.

I was so delirious that I just signed. I told them I would pay for my flight home and asked when I could leave.

No answer.

Then they moved me to another cell – this time with no mat or blanket. I sat on the freezing cement floor for hours. That’s when I realized they were processing me into real jail: the Otay Mesa Detention Center.

I was told to shower, given a jail uniform, fingerprinted and interviewed. I begged for information.

“How long will I be here?”

“I don’t know your case,” the man said. “Could be days. Could be weeks. But I’m telling you right now – you need to mentally prepare yourself for months.”

Months.

I felt like I was going to throw up.

I was taken to the nurse’s office for a medical check. She asked what had happened to me. She had never seen a Canadian there before. When I told her my story, she grabbed my hand and said: “Do you believe in God?”

I told her I had only recently found God, but that I now believed in God more than anything.

“I believe God brought you here for a reason,” she said. “I know it feels like your life is in a million pieces, but you will be OK. Through this, I think you are going to find a way to help others.”

At the time, I didn’t know what that meant. She asked if she could pray for me. I held her hands and wept.

I felt like I had been sent an angel.

I was then placed in a real jail unit: two levels of cells surrounding a common area, just like in the movies. I was put in a tiny cell alone with a bunk bed and a toilet.

The best part: there were blankets. After three days without one, I wrapped myself in mine and finally felt some comfort.

For the first day, I didn’t leave my cell. I continued fasting, terrified that the food might make me sick. The only available water came from the tap attached to the toilet in our cells or a sink in the common area, neither of which felt safe to drink.

Eventually, I forced myself to step out, meet the guards and learn the rules. One of them told me: “No fighting.”

“I’m a lover, not a fighter,” I joked. He laughed.

I asked if there had ever been a fight here.

“In this unit? No,” he said. “No one in this unit has a criminal record.”

That’s when I started meeting the other women.

That’s when I started hearing their stories.

And that’s when I made a decision: I would never allow myself to feel sorry for my situation again. No matter how hard this was, I had to be grateful. Because every woman I met was in an even more difficult position than mine.

There were around 140 of us in our unit. Many women had lived and worked in the US legally for years but had overstayed their visas – often after reapplying and being denied. They had all been detained without warning.

If someone is a criminal, I agree they should be taken off the streets. But not one of these women had a criminal record. These women acknowledged that they shouldn’t have overstayed and took responsibility for their actions. But their frustration wasn’t about being held accountable; it was about the endless, bureaucratic limbo they had been trapped in.

The real issue was how long it took to get out of the system, with no clear answers, no timeline and no way to move forward. Once deported, many have no choice but to abandon everything they own because the cost of shipping their belongings back is too high.

I met a woman who had been on a road trip with her husband. She said they had 10-year work visas. While driving near the San Diego border, they mistakenly got into a lane leading to Mexico. They stopped and told the agent they didn’t have their passports on them, expecting to be redirected. Instead, they were detained. They are both pastors.

I met a family of three who had been living in the US for 11 years with work authorizations. They paid taxes and were waiting for their green cards. Every year, the mother had to undergo a background check, but this time, she was told to bring her whole family. When they arrived, they were taken into custody and told their status would now be processed from within the detention center.

Another woman from Canada had been living in the US with her husband who was detained after a traffic stop. She admitted she had overstayed her visa and accepted that she would be deported. But she had been stuck in the system for almost six weeks because she hadn’t had her passport. Who runs casual errands with their passport?

One woman had a 10-year visa. When it expired, she moved back to her home country, Venezuela. She admitted she had overstayed by one month before leaving. Later, she returned for a vacation and entered the US without issue. But when she took a domestic flight from Miami to Los Angeles, she was picked up by Ice and detained. She couldn’t be deported because Venezuela wasn’t accepting deportees. She didn’t know when she was getting out.

There was a girl from India who had overstayed her student visa for three days before heading back home. She then came back to the US on a new, valid visa to finish her master’s degree and was handed over to Ice due to the three days she had overstayed on her previous visa.

There were women who had been picked up off the street, from outside their workplaces, from their homes. All of these women told me that they had been detained for time spans ranging from a few weeks to 10 months. One woman’s daughter was outside the detention center protesting for her release.

That night, the pastor invited me to a service she was holding. A girl who spoke English translated for me as the women took turns sharing their prayers – prayers for their sick parents, for the children they hadn’t seen in weeks, for the loved ones they had been torn away from.

Then, unexpectedly, they asked if they could pray for me. I was new here, and they wanted to welcome me. They formed a circle around me, took my hands and prayed. I had never felt so much love, energy and compassion from a group of strangers in my life. Everyone was crying.

At 3am the next day, I was woken up in my cell.

“Pack your bag. You’re leaving.”

I jolted upright. “I get to go home?”

The officer shrugged. “I don’t know where you’re going.”

Of course. No one ever knew anything.

I grabbed my things and went downstairs, where 10 other women stood in silence, tears streaming down their faces. But these weren’t happy tears. That was the moment I learned the term “transferred”.

For many of these women, detention centers had become a twisted version of home. They had formed bonds, established routines and found slivers of comfort in the friendships they had built. Now, without warning, they were being torn apart and sent somewhere new. Watching them say goodbye, clinging to each other, was gut-wrenching.

I had no idea what was waiting for me next. In hindsight, that was probably for the best.

Our next stop was Arizona, the San Luis Regional Detention Center. The transfer process lasted 24 hours, a sleepless, grueling ordeal. This time, men were transported with us. Roughly 50 of us were crammed into a prison bus for the next five hours, packed together – women in the front, men in the back. We were bound in chains that wrapped tightly around our waists, with our cuffed hands secured to our bodies and shackles restraining our feet, forcing every movement into a slow, clinking struggle.

When we arrived at our next destination, we were forced to go through the entire intake process all over again, with medical exams, fingerprinting – and pregnancy tests; they lined us up in a filthy cell, squatting over a communal toilet, holding Dixie cups of urine while the nurse dropped pregnancy tests in each of our cups. It was disgusting.

We sat in freezing-cold jail cells for hours, waiting for everyone to be processed. Across the room, one of the women suddenly spotted her husband. They had both been detained and were now seeing each other for the first time in weeks.

The look on her face – pure love, relief and longing – was something I’ll never forget.

We were beyond exhausted. I felt like I was hallucinating.

The guard tossed us each a blanket: “Find a bed.”

There were no pillows. The room was ice cold, and one blanket wasn’t enough. Around me, women lay curled into themselves, heads covered, looking like a room full of corpses. This place made the last jail feel like the Four Seasons.

I kept telling myself: Do not let this break you.

Thirty of us shared one room. We were given one Styrofoam cup for water and one plastic spoon that we had to reuse for every meal. I eventually had to start trying to eat and, sure enough, I got sick. None of the uniforms fit, and everyone had men’s shoes on. The towels they gave us to shower were hand towels. They wouldn’t give us more blankets. The fluorescent lights shined on us 24/7.

Everything felt like it was meant to break you. Nothing was explained to us. I wasn’t given a phone call. We were locked in a room, no daylight, with no idea when we would get out.

I tried to stay calm as every fiber of my being raged towards panic mode. I didn’t know how I would tell Britt where I was. Then, as if sent from God, one of the women showed me a tablet attached to the wall where I could send emails. I only remembered my CEO’s email from memory. I typed out a message, praying he would see it.

He responded.

Through him, I was able to connect with Britt. She told me that they were working around the clock trying to get me out. But no one had any answers; the system made it next to impossible. I told her about the conditions in this new place, and that was when we decided to go to the media.

She started working with a reporter and asked whether I would be able to call her so she could loop him in. The international phone account that Britt had previously tried to set up for me wasn’t working, so one of the other women offered to let me use her phone account to make the call.

We were all in this together.

With nothing to do in my cell but talk, I made new friends – women who had risked everything for the chance at a better life for themselves and their families.

Through them, I learned the harsh reality of seeking asylum. Showing me their physical scars, they explained how they had paid smugglers anywhere from $20,000 to $60,000 to reach the US border, enduring brutal jungles and horrendous conditions.

One woman had been offered asylum in Mexico within two weeks but had been encouraged to keep going to the US. Now, she was stuck, living in a nightmare, separated from her young children for months. She sobbed, telling me how she felt like the worst mother in the world.

Many of these women were highly educated and spoke multiple languages. Yet, they had been advised to pretend they didn’t speak English because it would supposedly increase their chances of asylum.

Some believed they were being used as examples, as warnings to others not to try to come.

Women were starting to panic in this new facility, and knowing I was most likely the first person to get out, they wrote letters and messages for me to send to their families.

It felt like we had all been kidnapped, thrown into some sort of sick psychological experiment meant to strip us of every ounce of strength and dignity.

We were from different countries, spoke different languages and practiced different religions. Yet, in this place, none of that mattered. Everyone took care of each other. Everyone shared food. Everyone held each other when someone broke down. Everyone fought to keep each other’s hope alive.

I got a message from Britt. My story had started to blow up in the media.

Almost immediately after, I was told I was being released.

My Ice agent, who had never spoken to me, told my lawyer I could have left sooner if I had signed a withdrawal form, and that they hadn’t known I would pay for my own flight home.

From the moment I arrived, I begged every officer I saw to let me pay for my own ticket home. Not a single one of them ever spoke to me about my case.

To put things into perspective: I had a Canadian passport, lawyers, resources, media attention, friends, family and even politicians advocating for me. Yet, I was still detained for nearly two weeks.

Imagine what this system is like for every other person in there.

A small group of us were transferred back to San Diego at 2am – one last road trip, once again shackled in chains. I was then taken to the airport, where two officers were waiting for me. The media was there, so the officers snuck me in through a side door, trying to avoid anyone seeing me in restraints. I was beyond grateful that, at the very least, I didn’t have to walk through the airport in chains.

To my surprise, the officers escorting me were incredibly kind, and even funny. It was the first time I had laughed in weeks.

I asked if I could put my shoelaces back on.

“Yes,” one of them said with a grin. “But you better not run.”

“Yeah,” the other added. “Or we’ll have to tackle you in the airport. That’ll really make the headlines.”

I laughed, then told them I had spent a lot of time observing the guards during my detention and I couldn’t believe how often I saw humans treating other humans with such disregard. “But don’t worry,” I joked. “You two get five stars.”

When I finally landed in Canada, my mom and two best friends were waiting for me. So was the media. I spoke to them briefly, numb and delusional from exhaustion.

It was surreal listening to my friends recount everything they had done to get me out: working with lawyers, reaching out to the media, making endless calls to detention centers, desperately trying to get through to Ice or anyone who could help. They said the entire system felt rigged, designed to make it nearly impossible for anyone to get out.

The reality became clear: Ice detention isn’t just a bureaucratic nightmare. It’s a business. These facilities are privately owned and run for profit.

Companies like CoreCivic and GEO Group receive government funding based on the number of people they detain, which is why they lobby for stricter immigration policies. It’s a lucrative business: CoreCivic made over $560m from Ice contracts in a single year. In 2024, GEO Group made more than $763m from Ice contracts.

The more detainees, the more money they make. It stands to reason that these companies have no incentive to release people quickly. What I had experienced was finally starting to make sense.

#christofascists #ice raids #mass deportations #trump regime #canada us relations #police state #dictatorship #antifascist #the future we were promised

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backinmyphase · 14 days ago

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You didn't like the palace of the king of curses.

It wasn't because of the big garden with flowers you have never seen before, it wasn't because of the library with books you could only have dreamed of touching when you still lived in your home village.

It wasn't even the big intimidating king who was always scowling.

"There she is again. The king's new whore."

You didn't like the palace because of the maids who were constantly gossiping.

Every morning at precisely 5 am you were woken up by the sound of your door opening and the almost extra heavy steps of one of the maids. The maid would always start cleaning loudly at that ungodly hour and leave the curtains and door open when they leave. As they clean, they would always ignore you, never acknowledging your whining and groaning.

If it was just the lost sleep you wouldn't think they had something against you. Maybe it was just common here?

Wrong. Very wrong.

It wasn't common to be watched whenever you left your 'chambers'. It wasn't common to be glared at in the hallway. It wasn't common to wake up to torn clothes in your closet. And you really hoped it wasn't common to find tiny shards in your food.

It started with just whispering about you in the first week you were here. But over the last two months you felt the growing dread, growing hate towards you.

After you wore a kimono dress more oftenly, you would find it in shreds the next morning. And every snack that was brought to you was reflecting in different colors when the sun touched them.

Last week Sukuna had ordered you to eat with him. And as you felt their piercing glares you knew they were fuming.

"How do you think he will get rid of her when he gets bored?" Giggling. And of course they didn't care anymore if you heard what they said about you. Because they knew by now you wouldn't run to Sukuna about it.

Why? You didn't know. Maybe it was your sick masochistic pride which refused to ask that man for help. You would never admit it but somewhere deep in you, you didn't want him to see you as weak. Which he probably already did, but that was off the point. You didn't want him to see you scared because of some unspoken threats.

And today would be no different. Even if you could hear them talking about how you must be crazy in bed for their king to be so patient with you. But oh, were they wrong. Truth was, you didn't share anything intimate with the king.

You were just a gift for him from your village, someone he just kept around because he could. Well, that was your theory. Nobody knew what the king was really thinking.

"Oh, he will rip her apart for sure! Or maybe just slice her in two..."

That was enough of that for the day. Like always you skipped the rest of lunch, fleeing with light and quick steps out of that unbearable room. Maybe you had a sick masochistic pride, but even that had its limits.

At times like these you went into the library. They weren't allowed in there. The books there kept you warm and safe, away from the glances and whispers. Books about the world, countries you have never heard before. How could you, if you had never had seen so many books in one place?

Back in your village you would have called all these things meaningless. What about some other place on the other side of the earth? As if it would ever be important for you. But right now? It was nice to focus on something so meaningless. Maybe it was the relaxation. Probably it was the sleep deprivation. Who could blame you for falling asleep between these books?

·········⋆༺𓆩❀𓆪༻⋆·········

"Wake up." If you were back at your village you would have complained about this kind of waking up. But after the last two months it almost seemed gentle.

"Hmmmm?" you whined while keeping your eyes shut. You just wanted to sleep.

"I said wake up." You groaned while rubbing your eyes and slowly sitting up. Opening them to look into these red ones. Red eyes, crimson red eyes.

Annoyed, Sukuna sat down on the opposite side of the table you had layed your head on. Only now you realized how high the table was built, built specific for him to work on.

"I don't like it to be kept waiting." he leaned back in his chair. "I thought I made it clear to dine with you-"

"It's already dinner time?" you straightened your posture, your right cheek feeling hot from the laying on top of the book. Your eyes still felt heavy but you tried your hardest to keep them open.

"Was. It's already much past it in fact. I had to search for a long time to find you."

You looked outside of one of the big windows in the library, seeing the moon standing high in the nightsky. You rubbed your eyes, while a small yawn escaped. "I'm sorry, my lord, I fell asleep."

He scoffed. "I could see that. What I'm asking myself is why? Aren't you sleeping well?"

And of course you couldn't just keep your mouth shut like you had wanted. No, you scoffed too and narrowed your eyes as you thought about them. "Oh, but of course I do."

There was a tense silence after that, you didn't know what but something shifted in the atmosphere. Sukuna's eyes had suddenly something dark in them. "Elaborate."

You gaped but stayed silent. He didn't question, he demanded an explanation. But there was still your pride.

"Just neck problems, you know." you lowered your gaze onto the books you had read before falling asleep. Why the hell did you read about ants?

"Really?" his voice suddenly seemed so low. "Do you think you need a new sleeping place?"

As you looked at him, Sukuna had that strange glint in his eyes, the atmosphere more tense out of sudden.

"Oh, it's not that bad, don't worry." you muttered quietly, trying to ignore his intense stare.

"Well it's certainly not nothing if you oversleep dinner."

This wasn't going anywhere. You tried to lift your gaze just a bit, trying to see what his expression was, but you were immediately met with his red eyes making you advert your look.

The silence was awkward.

It wasn't like the king and you were constantly talking. Normally there would also be a silence in the room when you would dine. But that silence was different. Then he would be content with just your company, no fancy topics needed.

But right now he demanded an explanation. And you were to stubborn to give him it.

You looked at your book again just hoping he would drop it. Making it a battle of stubbornness, which others would laugh at, but was between the two of you more often than normal.

Hmmm...

Ants don't have ears. Instead of hearing through auditory canals, ants "hear" by feeling vibrations in the ground. Special sensors on their feet and on their knees help ants interpret signals from their surroundings. They also use their antennae and the hairs on their body to feel around while foraging for food.

Who would have known?

"Are you gonna drop the antics and just tell me what's going on?" he was annoyed and probably rightfully so, but you were too deep into it now.

"Don't know what you are talking about."

He let out a small groan and stood up. Making his way around the table to stand behind you. And for the first time since you were picked up from your village he was so close you could feel his warmth. He was leaning down behind you. His voice speaking into your right ear from behind.

"If you want to play this game then so be it. But I always find out. And if you keep sleeping so badly, well..."

You could hear his smirk. "Then I just have to make personally sure you sleep well."

With that he left. Left the room. And left you with a embarrassing warmth in your cheeks and tummy and cool ant facts.

@csolya @neuvilletteswife4ever @unaaasz

Hehe this was sitting in my drafts over six months, sryy (but I finished it on my birthday sooo)

Part 1 Part 2

#jjk #jjk x reader #sukuna x reader #jujutsu kaisen sukuna #ryomen sukuna #sukuna ryomen #sukuna #sukuna fluff

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cherrygirlfriend · 2 months ago

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─ FIRST LOVE THEORY ♥︎

...or rafe reuniting with his ex-wife.

♥︎ pairing .ᐟ ex-husband!rafe x married!reader

♥︎ summary .ᐟ reader goes over to her ex-husband's house when she finds out he introduced their son to his new girlfriend. rafe has a better idea for what they could do instead of arguing.

♥︎ warnings/tags .ᐟ smut! MDNI. cheating, unprotected piv, breeding kink. wc: 2.7k

♥︎ author's note .ᐟ first fic on my 3k celebration!!! i hope you guys like it <3 i have to wake up in six hours… 😭

3K MASTERLIST ♡ RAFE MASTERLIST

there's a theory that claims that men never get over their first love; that they're always going to be thinking about her, dream of her, mumbling her name in their sleep...

and if you wanted to prove said theory wrong, rafe cameron was the wrong person to go to; no matter what the occasion was, he would abandon it all for her if she called; anything for his first love.

you had been dating rafe since sophomore year of high school, starting to go out just days after you moved to the island. your family lived in a small, run-down house on the so-dubbed poor side of the island. even if your family couldn't afford much, they put all the money they had just so you could attend kildare academy.

when you started dating and he finally introduced you to his friends, you could see it in the eyes of every one of rafe's friends; they all looked down on you simply because you didn't come from money. one time while you'd been at a party rafe was hosting, you could hear his friends whisper about you, talking shit. saying how he was probably just dating you because you let him fuck you whenever, or how he pitied you.

that was the first time you two broke up; and a few days after, rafe came knocking at your door with a bouquet of flowers and a well-practiced apology prepared.

after that? you two pretty much became the most notorious on-and-off couple on the whole island. it was like every other week, you and rafe broke up, got back together, and broke up again. one moment, you'd be all over each other; the next moment, you were all over each other in a completely different way. the problem was, as you got older, your situation stayed the same.

you parked your car in front of the house rafe was living in; the bastard had gone and introduced the woman he was dating to your son without asking you, without even saying a word. you slammed your car door closed, your heeled knee-high boots clacking against the concrete.

"rafe!" you shouted, banging the side of your fist against the wooden door, the wreath hung up on the door shaking with the force of your punches "rafe fucking cameron, i need to talk to you!"

rafe pulled opened the door, his jaw clenched and his eyes narrowed, "what the hell do you want now? child support not come through?" the man scoffed and rolled his eyes.

"why the fuck did you introduce some bitch to leo without mentioning it to me?" you pushed him, your ex-husband stumbling backwards, "do you have no common sense? i told you, i don't want you to introduce any of your sluts to him before asking me first."

"you introduced your damn boyfriend to him when i told you not to!"

"rafe, i've told you a million times, will is not my boyfriend; we've been married for a year." you let out an annoyed scoff, "and that's completely different. you told me not to introduce him to a guy i had been with for a year and was getting engaged to, meanwhile i'm telling you not to introduce him to your third girlfriend of the month."

"can you shut the hell up? i'm not some fucking town bicycle." you followed rafe into the living room, watching as your ex-husband poured whiskey into a glass. you watch as he downs the glass, his adam's apple bobbing as he swallows, continuing to pour more amber liquid into the glass, turning to you, "i'll have you know, sofia and i have been exclusive for three months now."

"well, that's basically as good as marriage when it comes to you." you let out a small scoff, "i don't want you to introduce our son to anyone i don't know, rafe." you grabbed the glass of whiskey from him, downing the liquid, burning as it went down your throat. you slammed the glass onto the tray, pointing a manicured nail at him, your engagement ring and wedding band glimmering under the light. "don't fuck with me. not when it comes to him."

"you're so fuckin' selfish." rafe scoffs, throwing his hands in the air "he's my son too, you have no right to tell me what i can and can't do!"

"i've got a custody agreement that says i do." you narrow your eyes, poking him in the chest, "if you do shit like that again, i'm calling my lawyer."

"you've gotta be kidding me." rafe shook his head in disbelief, a bitter laugh leaving his lips as he brought his face closer to yours, gritting his teeth, "you're gonna try and change our custody agreement because of this? there's no way you're that much of a vindictive bitch."

"you really must not know me," you scoff as you look up at him, your eyes narrowed and your voice low, "because if you did, you'd know that that's exactly how much of a vindictive bitch i am." you stared into each other's eyes, your heavy breaths mingling together. rafe's jaw was clenched, his steely eyes focused on nothing but you.

his lips crashed against yours.

his hands were in your hair, tangled in the strands, tugging on them only to bring you closer to him; his lips were devouring you, a clash of lips, teeth, tongue; and even though you tried to pull away at first, it was like every time he got his hands on you, you melted. every time rafe kissed you, it felt like you were clay and he was molding you into yourself.

your back hit the solid wall behind you, and rafe let out a slight groan when his hands wrapped around under your thighs, and you hopped into his arms, your hands around the back of his neck as rafe held you against the wall. his hands trailed up to cup your ass, the hem of your skirt now all bunched up, your ex gripping the fat of your ass.

rafe carried you into the bedroom you used to share with him like you weighed nothing, dumping you onto the bed and causing your body to bounce on it slightly. grinning up at him, you took your dress off, the blonde looking at your body up and down, cocking his head to the side.

"you wore red?" rafe tsked, referring to the lingerie set you were wearing, a wine-red one, a color you knew rafe loved on you, having ruined many a set while you were together, "you should've just said you wanted to fuck."

you bit your lip when rafe finally took off his shirt, revealing a set of abs you'd caressed, kissed, licked, more times that you could count. his long fingers made work of his belt buckle, swiftly pulling his belt off. he snapped it once before throwing it to the side.

his pants were off, the outline of rafe's hard cock visible through his white calvin kleins. you rubbed your legs together, your nipples hard and straining against your bra. "you gonna come here, or do i need to come and getcha?"

rafe shook his head with a chuckle, and at his words, his body was on yours, grinding against you. a gasp left your lips as you felt his erection against your clothed cunt, and you could feel your arousal starting to form a wet patch in your lacy panties. his lips trailed down your jawline as his hands trailed down the strap of your bra, the man letting out a chuckle against your skin, the words he mumbled against your neck causing vibrations to run down your spine. "let's get this pesky thing off, huh?"

you arched your back off the bed, and rafe's long fingers darted to the clasp of your bra, swiftly unclasping it and throwing it to the floor with the rest of your clothes. within seconds, his lips were on your nipple, licking on the hard bud before his lips wrapped around it, sucking on it in a way that made you to arch into his touch, gasps of pure pleasure leaving your lips.

one of his hands slid into the waistband of your panties, bringing hid middle finger to your clit and pressing on it, making you mewl as your hand found his hair, tugging on it slightly. rafe groaned against your nipple, causing a wave of shivers to run down your spine as his finger lazily rolled around your clit.

"please..." you whined, and rafe let out a small chuckle against your nipple before releasing it with a pop!

his lips started to trail down your body, pressing kisses from between your breasts, down your belly button, continuing all the way until his lips made contact with the waistband of your panties.

"please what?" rafe asked as he started to press kisses on your panty-covered pussy, getting closer and closer to the wet little patch that was now decorating them.

"take them off..." you mewled, your hands grasping the sheets underneath you. rafe pressed a small kiss right over your clit, accompanying it with a teasing lick, before his long fingers finally tightened around the waistband of your panties.

"look at that." rafe huffed in a way that resembled a laugh, and as you looked down, you could see a large patch on the inside of your panties. you scrunched up your nose and looked away, making him let out another chuckle as you hid your face in your hands, "you're so cute when you're embarrassed, baby..." he cooed mockingly, throwing your panties to the side. "there's nothing to be embarrassed about. we both know you get soaked within seconds when it comes to me."

rafe licked a stripe up your slit, making sure to slightly suckle on your clit, a moan leaving your lips, your back arching off the bed you used to share with him. he moved himself up, until his face was over yours. when rafe placed a small, dazing kiss on your lips, you licked your lips, tasting yourself; he always loved doing that; always loved to make it known that only he could have such an effect on you.

the blonde grinned as he tugged his boxers down, gripping the shaft and moving his cock so the tip of it was pressing against your clit, drawing tiiiiny circles of it as if it was another 'funny' game he liked to play with you.

"come on...!" you whined, smacking his shoulders, "i need you..."

"what's wrong, sweetie?" rafe cooed mockingly, cocking his head to the side and narrowing his eyes, "your husband not enough for you?"

your eyes flit to the engagement ring and the wedding band on your ring finger, but the feeling of rafe's cock drawing circles on your needy, throbbing clit, before they looked back into his blue eyes that were mostly overtaken by the black of his pupil.

"please..." you looked at him through your lashes, pouting at rafe. he let out a slight chuckle, moving his shaft down to your entrance, "this what you want?" he asked, pressing a peck on your lips that felt like he was ridiculing you; but your body didn't care; all it cared about was having him inside of it. now.

"yes..." you whispered, "please..."

you felt the mushroom tip of rafe's cock finally enter into you, and even that was enough for a small smile to twitch up your lips; you knew it was pathetic, you knew that this wasn't something you should be doing but "aaaaaaahhhh-" as he sunk his cock deeper into you, you couldn't resist.

and before you were prepared for it, rafe had forced himself all the way into you, the tip of his cock hitting the sweet spot inside of you as you gasped for air, pressing your eyes closed in a way that brought tears to your eyes.

"tell me who you belong to..." he growled, his lips pressed against your neck as he pulled his cock almost entirely out of you, only leaving a tiny bit of it at your entrance.

"rafe..."

"tell me." rafe grabbed your thigh, hoisting your leg up onto his shoulder so he could get even deeper inside of you, "tell me, who you belong to."

"i..." you whisper, your eyes fluttering open, eyelashes wet with tears, "i belong to you, rafe..."

and as he pistoned his cock into you, you couldn't help but throw your head back, your eyes closed, the tears stuck to your lashes ruining your eye makeup.

when rafe's hand slowly made it's way to your pussy, you could tell that he was close; your ex was a sucker for having you both come at the same time. rafe started drawing lazy circles on your clit as he continued to plunge his cock in and out of you, hitting you right where you needed him, and that combined with his thumb on your clit was making the pressure in your abdomen grow, and grow, and grow...

"i'm gonna fuck another baby into you..." rafe mumbled into your ear, "always wanted a big family..." his thrusts grew quicker to the point that you were having a difficult time keeping up with him, "gonna give you a second baby..." his thumb's pace on your clit quickened, "tell me you want it... c'mon, baby..."

your brain wanted to tell him no, but it was as if your heart and your body were in control, every inch of them screaming out the answer that left your lips.

"yes!" you screamed out, "yes, rafe, yes!"

you could feel your cunt clenching around him, moaning out rafe's name as your orgasm washed over you, every part of your body blissed out, until a sense of clarity hit you, and although you tried to shove rafe off you, you couldn't do so, feeling as warm ropes of his thick cum started painting the walls of your slick cunt white.

as rafe got down off his high, he let out a small chuckle as he pulled his cock out of you, the slightly pinkening inches of him soaked in a white mixture of you and him, only for him to shove the cum that was dripping out of you back into you, making you let out another gasp.

rafe laughed as he pulled his fingers out of your hole, bringing them to your mouth. "taste." and you knew; it wasn't a request, it was a command. and so you did.

some moments went by and you were nuzzled in rafe's arms, the both of you content and satisfied as you laid under the blankets, rafe smelling the raspberry-scented shampoo you always wore with a smile on his face; he hoped that your scent would linger; your shampoo, body wash, perfume; he hoped it'd all just... be there, in his bedsheets, forever.

you took the picture frame off the nightstand, and you saw exactly what you were expecting; a picture of you and rafe kissing only moments after you said i do; rafe in his ridiculously expensive tuxedo and you in your custom vera wang wedding dress, your ex-husband having told you that you didn't only deserve the best; you needed it. as you traced the hem of your wedding dress, rafe let out a chuckle, and you couldn't help but turn to him with your brows furrowed, "what?"

"it's just..." rafe brought his hand to rest over yours, his finger right where yours was, trailing your hem, "this kind of reminds me of how i bunched up this dress around your waist a little bit before the wedding..." his icy blue eyes turned to you, "and how i did the same with your most recent wedding dress, and fucked you. what was it you wore to your wedding with will?" he pretended to ponder, "valentino?"

you looked up at him your eyes narrowing, "you can never tell him this happened."

"don't worry, baby." rafe's hand detached from the frame as he cooed mockingly, going to trace your cheekbone with his long, ringed fingers, "i'm sure he can figure it out when your baby ends up looking nothing like him."

♥︎ author's note .ᐟ thinking of writing a fic about rafe and reader on her wedding day... lmk if you want that.

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no-144444 · 2 months ago

Text

the oscars- o.piastri

꩜ summary: you bring your own oscar to the oscar's!

꩜ pairing: married! oscar piastri x actress! fem! reader

꩜ a/n: just realised i never posted this and it has been sitting in my drafts for over a month and a half ish lol

I want you to come with me.

Those words had run through his head like a fucking jack-hammer for weeks. What did that even entail? Acquiring a tux, sure. He could do that. Learn all the names of the people he could potentially meet, any celebrities or old co-stars he’d probably met but didn’t remember. Again, he could do that. Sit beside you all night and let you be your wonderful self as he got a first class seat and bragging rights about the fact that he was yours, he did that all day everyday.

So why did this feel so different? He’d been to award shows before. Not the award show, but motorsports ones. You’d come as his date. The world knew about you two. He’d gone to the BAFTAs with you one year. He should be fine. He knows he’s just there to hold your hand all night and make sure you don’t forget to eat something, but this just feels… different. This was the Oscars. The one night all of Hollywood steps out in their very best, hoping to get something back. And you were nominated in 3 categories.

“Fix your bowtie,” Hattie fussed over him as he rolled his eyes. You’d even invited his whole family. You weren’t super close with yours and they hadn’t really supported your career, but the Piastri’s had. Nicole went to every premiere you offered her, sometimes flying last minute just to be there to support you. He remembered how touched you’d been when she showed up at your Cannes debut, you called him crying that night, not even knowing what to do with yourself because you thought it was just so nice. You were 14 then, but you were 24 now, and you weren’t just his girlfriend, you were his wife. You were officially part of the family, even though you had been from the moment he’d brought you home. He started playing with his ring, a nervous habit he’d picked up since getting married.

“It is fixed,” he snapped back as she fiddled with it. “Mum said it looked fine-”

“I wasn’t looking at you when I said that!” she called from the other room. Oscar rolled his eyes again.

“Your eyes are on swivels today,” Mae teased, looking up from her phone. Oscar fought back rolling them again, and instead went for a scoff.

“I’m the only reason you guys are even coming,” he scoffed, Hattie still fixing his tie. Mae’s jaw dropped in offence.

She gasped. “Excuse you! I think Y/n would still invite us even if you guys got a divorce.”

A shiver went up his spine at that thought. Leaving you? He couldn’t do it. He knew in his bones he’d adore you until he was old and grey, and probably a while after that too.

“She definitely would,” Eddie added, walking in. “Plus, she’s dressed now, if you want to see her.”

Oscar tried to pull away from Hattie, but he just got choked by his bowtie, resulting in a fit of coughs and a gaggle of laughter from his sisters.

He heard a chuckle he knew all too well and he turned his head. You were radiant. A burgundy formal gown, your hair exactly the way you loved it, and that wonderful look in your eyes. The one he saw when he woke up next to you. The one that made him blush no matter how long you’d been together. “You alright there?” you questioned.

He chuckled and Hattie finally finished with his bowtie, so he turned to you, wrapping his arms around your waist and pressing his lips to yours as he lifted you off the ground- just slightly. You grinned against his lips and he felt the panic that had been building completely subside. You pulled back as your feet reached the ground again, and chuckled. “Do I have lipstick?” he asked, a question he asked most days. You nodded, but Mae got up to take a photo, giggling at her brother with you. It didn’t bother him. You finally just wiped it off and smiled at him.

“What do you think?” you asked, pulling back and giving him a spin. You showed off the low back and he knew he’d be ripping this dress off of you tonight. He swore the breath was knocked from his lungs every time you looked at him, but truly, you were breathtaking.

“I think you’re the most beautiful woman in the entire world,” he whispered, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek.

“Oh yeah?” you smirked. He nodded.

“Oh yeah.”

The Red Carpet was as overwhelming as usual, but he enjoyed watching his sisters interact with the few fans of theirs that were there. He watched you with so much love and pride in his eyes, so much so that Tim had to nudge him to remember to walk on and not just stand in the back of your photos looking at you lovingly. When you finally finished up, you grabbed his hand as he led you into the auditorium.

“You still have my speeches?’ you questioned. He tapped his chest, signalling that it was in his breast pocket. You smiled. “Thank you.”

“Always,” he smiled back. “Forever.”

As soon as your moment began, it ended, because Nicole pulled you away to go talk to people and he fucked off to the dinner table. He watched as you worked the room, animatedly speaking to people as he watched on from his seat at the table, thoroughly enjoying his food.

It was his dad who pulled him out of his daze, asking how he was feeling.

“I’m fine,” he nodded, only slightly lying.

Chris smiled. “She’s going to win ‘em, I bet you.”

“She will,” Oscar nodded. “Her work has been incredible this year.”

“You’re telling me,” he chuckled. “I cried for three days over the Outrun.”

Oscar laughed out loud as his dad shook his head. “I know what you mean.”

Just then, Oscar caught your eye from the other side of the ballroom and you smiled at him, waving. He waved back. You were a vision in burgundy. He swore to go he was going to get heart palpitations from how beautiful you were.

“Starting soon now,” Tim clapped his hands on Oscar’s shoulders. “Better be ready with those acceptance speeches.”

Chris smiled at Tim. “Took the words out of my mouth,” he chuckled. “Also have to practice your shocked face. Even though we all know she’s going to win every single one of them,” Chris tapped his leg. “Like how she pretends to be shocked when you win.”

Oscar laughed, his cheeks going red. Why was he being embarrassed by his own father and step-father at the Oscars right now? He wanted you back, you could always calm them down, make them less… whatever they were.

“Busy?” you asked, coming up to the table, your question directed at him. He stood up immediately.

“Not at all,” he shook his head, the boys behind him chuckling like schoolgirls. He took your hand and you led him to the foot of the stage, squeezing his hand.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” you whispered, leaning to his shoulder. “Thank you for coming.”

“I'm so proud of you,” he smiled, his hand sneaking around your waist to pull you closer. He loved this. These quiet moments between all the hustle and bustle of your own lives. The room melted away behind you as you both stared at the stage you hoped you’d end up on tonight, but he knew you would. “I’ll always come.”

You chuckled. “You said cum.”

He rolled his eyes, the soft moment between the two of you, now abruptly over due to his choice of words. He looked down at you and you laughed at his unimpressed stare. “I love you?” you offered, cupping his cheek.

“I guess I love you too,” he leaned in and pressed his lips to yours gently, but quickly- as to not get lipstick all over his mouth.

“And the nominees are; Anora, written by Sean Baker. The Brutalist, written by Brady Corbet, Mona Fastvold. A Real Pain, written by Jesse Eisenberg. , September 5, written by Moritz Binder, Tim Fehlbaum; co-written by Alex David. The Substance, written by Y/n Y/l/n,” the crowd cheered and he felt your hand squeeze his just a little tighter. “And the winner is… Anora, written by Sean Baker!”

Despite the loss, you stood and clapped for him. Oscar joined you, though he thought you should’ve probably won. You both sat back down as his speech began and he took your hand again. “You alright?”

You nodded beside him, your eyes fixed to Sean and his speech. “There’s still like 4 hours left, don’t worry.”

He chuckled and pressed a soft kiss to your hand. Ever the positive person.

“And the nominees are; Anora, Sean Baker. The Brutalist, David Jancso. Conclave, Nick Emerson. The Outrun, Y/n Y/l/n. Wicked, Myron Kerstein,” you tensed beside him. “And the winner is… Y/n Y/l/n, The Outrun!”

And the room stood for you. He felt like he was in slow motion. You both stood up at the same time, a bright smile on your face (he was sure he looked ridiculous), and you turned to him and you hugged him.

“Holy shit,” you whispered. He smiled back, nodding.

“You fucking did it,” he cheered as he pulled the speech out of his pocket. “Go accept it.”

You nodded and started your descent down the stairs. The entirety of Hollywood was on their feet for you. You’d been working in the industry since you were a kid. Everyone knew how wonderful you were. Only he got to see it everyday. He watched, pride practically spilling from every pore as you stood up on that stage, taking the award in your hand, the sheet of paper in your hand. You looked up, a teary smile on your lips. “Wow,” you breathed out, looking at the room, but your eyes immediately met Oscar’s, and you both smiled again. “Hello, and thank you,” you started. “Umm… alright, speech- yes!” you unfolded the piece of paper in your hand and took a deep breath. “Well… first of all, I’d like to thank the academy, because this-” you held up your award. “Is incredible. And next, I’d like to thank my family. Nicole, Tim, Chris, Hattie, Eddie, Mae,” Oscar was already tearing up, and he was sure his mom was at the floodgates stage of it all. “You’ve been so incredibly kind to me over the past decade. You took me in when I was just a random 14 year old your son or brother was dating, and you gave me a family, and I'll always be grateful. Next, I’d like to thank my husband-” he felt a tear fall down his cheek and he knew there were about twenty cameras on him. There were a few cheers from the crowd. “- Oscar, you’ve made me insanely happy, and you’re my everything. But you’re also the only person I’ll ever let in my editing room. I love how curious you were at the start, and now, how effortlessly you help me. Truly, this is half yours-” you chuckled, and so did he. “No matter what. Whether you were coming in from a race weekend, totally exhausted, or just come back from a run, you’ll sit beside me in silence and help me make it all work. I don’t think you understand how much that means to me, so, thank you. I love you all, thank you!” you finished off, just wiping the small tear that had fallen away, as the crowd rose for you again. Oscar was a goner, tears falling freely as he tried to wipe them away. God, you were too kind. He adored you.

The night ended at 3am, you walked away with two Oscar awards, and one Oscar. He was grinning the whole time, too. Couldn’t stop. You won Best Editing and Best Supporting Actress. His family were elated and you giggled on the way back tot he hotel as you watched videos of them react to you winning, since they weren't sitting beside you.

Both you and Oscar were exhausted, so you fell into bed, immediately tangling with each other and knocking out.

He ran a hand through your hair as he lazily closed his eyes. "Y/n?"

You hummed against his skin, sign enough that you were slightly conscious.

"I adore you," he whispered, the silence of the room seeming even quieter in the dark. You looked up at him through tired eyes, a soft smile on your lips.

"I feel it," you smiled. "And I love you too."

Best night ever.

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thepencilnerd · 2 months ago

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And Through It All

pairing: Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x F!Doctor!Reader summary: What starts with years of coffee, rooftop conversations, and quiet closeness unravels in the aftermath of a violent patient attack. As the hospital reels, so does Robby—until everything he’s buried comes to the surface. warnings: depiction of violence towards women genre: slow burn, pining, angst, fluff, you both suck at feelings word count: 3.6k a/n: yes this show still has me in a chokehold, this man is old enough to be my father, and protective/emotionally constipated Robby has consumed my every waking thought. also someone please sedate me because I don't know how I'm going to make it between episodes.

p.s. also check out my other Dr. Robby fics (Not Enough | Feels Like Trouble) if you're interested

Dr. Michael "Robby" Robinavitch always clocked in just after you.

It started as coincidence—years ago, when you were a new year-2 resident fumbling your way through charting and sleep deprivation. You’d arrive blurry-eyed at 5:58 AM, and two minutes later, he'd walk through the side door with two cups of coffee. One always ended up in your hand.

"This is my warm welcome to the pit, I’m not on coffee rounds," he’d grumbled the first time.

"Yet, my savior, here you are," you smiled, taking the cup. "Thanks, Dr. Robby."

He gave you a look, dry and fond. "Don’t get used to it."

Needless to say, you both did.

Now a senior resident, you’ve long since earned your stripes—but the morning coffees kept coming. So did the banter.

"That differential on bed 7 was a mess," Robby muttered one morning.

You sipped from your cup. "I was experimenting with chaos as a teaching strategy."

He stared, deadpan. "Rein it in, Nietzsche."

Late nights sometimes ended on the roof—shoulders nearly touching, silence stretched long between you. The rooftop was a liminal space: above the noise, between shifts, between you and him. You'd talk about patients. About medicine. About what the job takes and what it leaves behind.

One night you’d murmured, "Do you think we make a difference? Or are we just putting out fires that never stop?"

Robby didn’t answer right away. You could hear him breathing. "Some burning buildings are worth running into," he said eventually, voice low like he was admitting something he'd carried a long time.

It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t not. You were close—so close it blurred. You never noticed how often he drifted into your orbit. But others did.

"So... you and Robinavitch—what’s the deal?" McKay would tease with a grin.

You furrowed your brow, genuinely confused. "What do you mean?"

She leaned on the nurses' station, unbothered. "C’mon, you really don’t see it? The way he looks at you? Brings you coffee every morning? Steps in before anyone else can when the ball rolls downhill?"

You waved a hand dismissively. "He just… cares. That’s his job."

McKay raised an eyebrow. "Sure. Except he doesn’t bring me coffee. Or look like he’s going to deck someone if they so much as raise their voice at me."

You opened your mouth to reply—but the sliding ER doors slammed open. A gurney rushed in, shouting echoing off the walls. Without thinking, you turned and ran toward the trauma bay.

"Saved by the bell," McKay called after you, but you were already gone.

But you didn’t see how his eyes tracked you in a crowded hallway, lingering just a second longer than necessary—guarded, but unmistakably drawn. How he'd appear at your side before anyone else when things turned sideways, voice calm but stance protective, like he was positioning himself between you and whatever chaos had just erupted. The way his jaw would tighten when residents spoke too casually around you, especially if their tone dipped into flirtation. The moments when his voice dropped low, quiet and edged with something softer, when asking if you’d made it home safe after shifts—always phrased like a passing question, but one he never failed to ask.

Earlier that week, Robby had been leaning against the counter in the break room with Dana and a few of the nurses clustered nearby. He was sipping bad coffee and flipping through a chart when Dana nudged him lightly with her elbow.

"You know," she started with a smirk. "You're getting pretty soft on that senior resident."

Robby didn’t look up, adjusting the frame of his glasses. "Yeah? What makes you say that?"

Princess glanced at Perlah, who grinned. The two exchanged a few rapid lines in Tagalog—something teasing and full of mischief. Robby raised an eyebrow.

"Just because I don’t speak Tagalog doesn’t mean I don’t know exactly what you’re saying," he said dryly, finally taking off his glasses and staring at the nurses judgementally.

Dana just about cackled. "Come on, Robby. You bring her coffee every morning, you hover when she’s in a tough case, you barely let interns breathe near her."

Perlah added, "And you always look at her like you’re trying not to."

Princess laughed. "Sir, that’s not just coffee—that’s courtship."

Robby rolled his eyes, biting back a smile. "You all have too much time on your hands."

"We're just saying," Dana said as she turned toward the door. "If you're gonna pine, at least be subtle."

He shook his head and muttered, "Back to work, people."

Then came the day everything cracked.

The patient had come in hostile—angry at the world and bleeding from a cut above his brow—muttering about how no one respected him, how women thought they were better than him. According to his chart, he had a record of violent outbursts and a chip on his shoulder the size of the hospital.

"You think you're smarter than me, don't you?" he sneered when you entered the bay, his arms crossed and chest puffed like a bull ready to pick a fight.

You kept your voice calm and professional. "Sir, I'm just here to update your chart and make sure you're getting what you need."

He laughed—sharp and bitter. "What I need is for people like you to stop looking at me like I'm some kind of freak. All you female doctors think you're so much better."

You froze for just a second. "I'm here to provide care. Nothing more."

"Don't lie to me!" he spat. "I see how you talk to the others. You think you're above me like some queen. But you're not. You're just another stupid cunt—"

"I'm going to get another physician to help with your case," you said quickly, trying to disengage, stepping back toward the call button.

"You walk away from me, and I swear—"

The second he was out of your peripheral vision, he lunged.

You cried out as his weight slammed into you, sending you hard to the ground. Everyone around you scattered, the staff protecting patients and patients protecting themselves.

Your elbow struck tile and pain bloomed across the crown of your skull. Your head snapped back like a slap bracelet. He loomed over you, shouting a string of vile insults, hands grabbing at whatever they could. Another set of fingers clamped around your throat. A scream pierced through the air shouting, "Robby!" Only after a set of doors burst open did you realize it was yours.

Before you had time to process what was happening, he was there.

Robby knocked the patient off of you with brute force that stunned the entire hospital staff. Without help, Robby pinned him to the floor facefirst with practiced strength, knees braced, and jaw clenched. "Security!" his voice thundered.

Subduing the attacker by his wrists, Robby's knee dug into the man's back thigh without mercy, making him cry out in pain. "Collins! Dana!" he barked, voice sharp and commanding, reverberating through the trauma bay like a shockwave.

You were on the floor, dazed, breath knocked out of you. The two women rushed to your side in the blink of an eye. All around, med students and residents stood frozen, eyes wide.

They had never seen Robby like that.

No one had ever seen Robby like that.

The patient struggled once more before Robby leaned in and drove his knee harder into the attacker’s thigh, his grip unrelenting, voice low and deadly calm. "Stay down."

Security took over a moment later, but Robby didn’t move until he was sure it was safe. Then he stood, exhaled once, and turned to Dana and Collins.

"I'll be over as soon as I can, brief me later," he said. "I'll assess her myself."

Dana crouched beside you, one hand firm on your shoulder. "We've got you," she said gently, then glanced over her shoulder. "We'll be in 4."

Collins helped you up with care, guiding you slowly down the hall while Dana kept close at your side. You were still disoriented, a sharp ringing in your ears, but you caught a glimpse of Robby speaking to security. He didn’t even glance your way—focused, furious, deadly calm.

In Exam Room 4, Collins set you down on the cot, already checking your pupils with a penlight. "You hit your head?"

"Yeah," you managed, wincing as you moved. "Elbow too. Think I caught most of the floor on the way down."

Dana pressed a cold pack into your hand. "You’re in shock. Just breathe. We’ll handle this."

Collins nodded, gently examining your face and palpating around your ribs. "No obvious trauma, nothing broken. Expect some bruising around your throat the next few days. We should get you in for a head CT just to be safe. You took a hard hit."

"I'll get that booked ASAP," Dana said, giving your arm a reassuring squeeze before stepping out to handle the order. She paused at the doorway just long enough to exchange a glance with Collins—an unspoken check-in—before disappearing down the hall.

Moments later, the door opened again. Robby stepped in, his expression unreadable but his eyes scanning you like he was cataloging every mark, every breath.

"I’ll take it from here," he said quietly to Collins.

They exchanged a glance, then wordlessly stepped out.

And then it was just you and him.

He crossed to your side, kneeling. His hands moved automatically, gently tilting your chin to check for swelling, eyes flicking to your pupils, then the scrape along your cheekbone. "Can you look up for me? Good. Follow my finger."

His voice was low and clinical, but his touch was careful—too careful.

"Headache? Nausea? Double vision?" he asked, bringing your hand into his and turning it over to assess for any injuries.

"No, just a little dizzy," you murmured.

He nodded, eyes narrowing slightly as he assessed your elbow, then the bruising along your neck. Then the questions stopped. His hands stilled.

He just looked at you—really looked at you—and the silence took hold.

His jaw flexed, like he was trying to say something but couldn't. Something had cracked open in him. Not just from what happened. From what it revealed.

And you could feel it—the weight in the room. Something unsaid between you, thick as blood and twice as loud.

You tried to fill the silence. "Dana said she'd put in a rush order for a head CT. Collins didn’t think anything was broken, just some bruising and—"

"Don’t," Robby said, almost too softly.

Your words faltered. You watched him—how his shoulders stayed tense, how his eyes didn’t move from yours, how still he was, like saying the wrong thing might make everything unravel.

"Robby," you said gently. "It's okay, I’m fine."

His jaw clenched, masseter muscles carving his sunken cheeks like a marble sculpture. "No, it's not. You’re not."

He said it so quietly, like he hated the truth of it. Getting up, he ruffled his hair and shook his head, voice still quiet but heavy. "Just... give me a second."

It wasn’t the injury that had shaken him—it was the realization. That in those terrifying few seconds, the worst thing he could imagine had nearly happened. And it wasn’t because you were his resident. Or his colleague.

It was because you were you.

You watched him pace as the silence dragged, your heart still pounding faintly in your ears. "Robby," you tried again, softer this time. "I'm okay, really..."

Still, he said nothing.

You gave a half-scoff, half-sigh, trying to shake off the tension. "I’ve had worse nights. Dana and Collins already cleared me—CT’s just precautionary. Nothing to worry about."

His movements stilled and eyes didn’t leave yours.

"What is it?" you asked, finally, your voice gentle but steady—like you already knew the answer but needed to hear it.

That cracked something in him. He looked away for a beat, jaw flexing again, his breath hitching as if he was holding back something too big to name. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse, raw—nothing like the sharp, composed attending everyone else knew.

"I didn’t know it would feel like that."

He rubs the back of his neck, a self-soothing gesture in an effort to hold back whatever threatens to overflow. "Seeing you on the ground. Hearing you scream. For me. I’ve seen worse—God knows we all have. But nothing’s ever felt like that."

You froze.

His eyes met yours again, and the walls he always held in place—stone and steel and professionalism—weren’t there anymore. He looked at you like he wanted something he had never allowed himself to want. Like he was terrified of the feeling and already grieving it.

You felt the shift like gravity tilting. Like the air changed around you. It was as though the ground beneath you had tipped on its axis.

And suddenly, everything between you was different.

Not unspoken anymore, just unbearable to say aloud.

You felt yourself retreating into the space between what you wanted to feel and what you needed to believe. The part of you that ached wanted to lean forward, close the distance, tell him you felt it too—that terrible, awful, beautiful clarity.

But another part held you back. The part that lived in hospital hallways and stared at name badges and remembered what it meant to be professional. To be younger. A resident. His resident. The part that convinced you it could never be more.

You searched his face, trying to decode what this moment was, or if it had always been there, hiding in quiet coffees and rooftops and restrained glances. And still, he said nothing. Maybe he was waiting. Maybe he didn’t know how to cross that final line either.

So you just sat there in the quiet with him, suspended between the ache and the boundary—between what was true and what you were still too scared to say.

Eventually, you broke. Your voice came out barely above a whisper. "I'm sorry."

His brows furrowed instantly. "For what?"

You shook your head, feeling heat rise behind your eyes. "I don’t know. For not calling for help. For being alone in there. For... allowing this," you gestured between the two of you, "to happen." You sniffled. "For letting myself—"

"Don’t," he cut in sharply, but not unkindly. "Don’t you dare apologize for any of that, you did nothing wrong."

You blinked.

He leaned in slightly, voice steady now, like he needed you to hear every word. "You did everything right. You followed protocol. That man was unstable, and what happened wasn’t your fault."

Your lip trembled, but you didn’t speak.

His voice softened again. "And if this is about me... if you think you’ve done something wrong because of how I feel about you—how I care about you—don’t."

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was everything neither of you knew how to name. It sat heavy between you—thick with the ache of things buried too long and the sharp edges of everything that couldn't be said. You could feel it in your chest, pressing against your ribs and threatening to claw itself out, the unspoken confession of a man who just laid bare more than he meant to, and your own desperate need to pretend you didn’t hear it.

But you had. You’d heard it in his voice, in the way his hands had trembled just slightly when he touched your face, in the way his eyes wouldn’t leave yours even when they should’ve.

And now, as your chest rose and fell too quickly and your heart tried to find steady ground, all the small moments you’d buried—or maybe just refused to examine—rushed back like a crashing wave. His hand guiding yours during your very first incision, firm but not overbearing. The coffees every morning—always your usual, always on time. The time he’d found you on the stairwell after you lost your first patient, sobbing uncontrollably, and he didn’t try to fix it—he just sat there beside you until you could breathe again. The rooftop shifts when you couldn’t quiet your incessant thoughts, he somehow always found you there.

The silence that needed no explanation.

It had always been there. A quiet, steadfast presence. Not loud, not showy—but constant.

And now, undeniable.

And maybe you were still trying to find the line between what had always been there and what had just changed—but the silence was no longer uncertain. It was waiting.

You decided to break it.

"Can I kiss you?" you whispered, eyes searching his, breath catching somewhere in your throat.

Robby didn’t answer. Not with words.

He leaned in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. His eyes searched yours, one last moment of hesitation flickering there—one last out, if you wanted it.

But you didn’t. Instead, you met him halfway.

His lips brushed yours, featherlight at first, reverent, like he still couldn’t believe he was allowed. His skin was warm against yours, soft in a way that surprised you. Your fingers found his jaw, the roughness of his beard brushing your palms as your hands slid down slowly, until they came to rest at the curve of his neck—right where his pulse thrummed hard beneath your fingertips.

The kiss deepened a breath later, quiet and aching, full of everything you’d both held back for far too long. His hands rose to cradle your face, holding you like something fragile, like if he wasn’t careful, you might break. His thumbs grazed the corners of your cheekbones, grounding and gentle, anchoring you both in the impossible tenderness of it.

There was nothing hurried about it. Just warmth and softness and the quiet admission of something real. Something that had lived in the silence between you for years.

When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, exhaling shakily.

It wasn’t just a kiss. It was a confession.

He let out a breath, rough and shaky against your cheek. "You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that," he murmured. His voice cracked just slightly at the edges—like the truth cost something to say. And maybe it did.

You pulled back enough to see him clearly, your hands resting on his neck, feeling the steady, trembling pulse beneath your fingertips. He looked at you like the moment might vanish if he blinked.

For years, probably. You just hadn’t let yourself admit it. Not through the early mornings or the long nights. Not even when he stood too close, or when his voice turned soft just for you. Not even when your heart always found him in a crowd. But now, with his breath still warm against your lips and his hands still cradling your face like something precious, you couldn’t pretend anymore.

You’d been his and he'd been yours, long before either of you were brave enough to say it. You pulled back just enough to look at him—really look—and gently stroked his cheek, admiring his freckles like newly formed constellations in the sky.

His eyes drop ever so slightly. "I'm old," he starts. "My work-life balance is absolute shit. You deserve someone who can give you what you need."

You stare at him, puzzled. For a second, you think he’s serious—like he's about to start building walls where they’d only just crumbled.

Then you catch the flicker in his expression. The barely-there smirk at the corner of his mouth. He’s only half-serious. Nervous. Teasing you.

You grin, easing the weight with a well-aimed jab. "At least you're not old enough to be my father. And it's not like my hours spent outside work ratio is any better."

He scoffs, ducking his head before shaking it all too lightheartedly.

"And for the record," you add, tapping his chest with a pointed index finger. "This is not some personification of daddy issues, I'll have you know that my father and I have a very healthy relationship."

"Well, that’s a relief," he murmurs, his smile softening as he encloses his fingers around your hand.

You sit back, playful. "I’ll keep you up to date on all the hottest trends the youths engage in. Like cat cafés and strawberry milk matcha lattes. And emotional vulnerability."

He groans, rubbing his face shyly. "God help me."

You grin, careful not to laugh too hard, and lean into him again. "Too late for that, Robinavitch. You’re stuck with me."

"Yeah," he whispered. "I really hope I am."

Outside, the hospital buzzed as it always did—pages overhead, heels echoing on tile, lives beginning and ending behind curtain walls. But for a moment, the noise faded. The only sound was your breathing, his.

And the quiet hum of something long overdue settling into place.

You didn’t know what came next—how this would unfold outside the safety of Room 4, outside of bruises and adrenaline and low-lit confessions. But for now, with his forehead still resting gently against yours, and the weight of unspoken feelings finally aired between you, it didn’t matter.

You had time.

Until a round of cheers and high fives broke the stillness like a confetti cannon bursting into the air.

Both of you jerked apart, startled. Just outside the half-closed door to Room 4 stood a cluster of med students, nurses, residents, and paramedics—huddled together like a peanut gallery, barely containing their glee.

Fire. Fire beneath your cheeks igniting your face like the depths of hell and embarrassment. You buried it in Robby’s chest as he turned around slowly, one hand instinctively coming up to rest on your back as he started to laugh.

Langdon, of course, was the ringleader. He held up a neon orange post-it like a trophy, waving it proudly as the group chuckled and whooped behind him. In black Sharpie were the words:

UNPLANNED CONFESSION - Langdon & King—the bet circled and underlined. And below it: $7/week. Scribbled in tiny pen just beneath that, barely legible, was a date—six months ago.

He high-fived someone out of view next to him just before giving the two of you an exaggerated thumbs-up, grinning like he’d just won the Super Bowl. On cue, Mel stood up from beside him and gave you a quick wave and a shy smile, arms held tightly by her sides.

You groaned, still pressed into Robby's chest. "I swear to God, if they made a bracket—"

"Oh they definitely made a bracket," Robby said, laughing into your hair.

You peeked up at him, still mortified but grinning. "Are we seriously the plot twist in someone’s trauma bay soap opera?"

"Apparently," he muttered, pulling you closer. "Should we give them something to talk about for next week's episode?"

You scoffed, swatting lightly at his chest. "Take me out to dinner first, will you?"

Outside, the group began to scatter—some called back to rounds, others still giggling as they walked off. But you stayed there, tucked into Robby’s side, warmth blooming in your chest despite the chaos. Whatever came next, you’d figure it out. Together.

And if the hospital had front-row seats to your slow-burn becoming a soft landing? So be it.

#the pitt #the pitt hbo #the pitt x reader #the pitt fanfiction #dr. robby #michael robinavitch #dr robby x reader #michael robinavitch x reader #noah wyle #dr robby imagine #the pitt spoilers #dr. robby x reader #dr robby x you #the pitt imagine #michael robinavitch imagine

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hedgehog-moss · 2 months ago

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I'm happy to announce that Dru is no longer alone! Spring is here, baby chicks have hatched, and so I was able to get two new hens.

The first one (who, as per tradition, will receive a name on the day she lays her first egg) is your average red hen, already old enough to defend herself against hazing; and she seems very congenial to boot. It took some time for Dru to warm up to her former coopmate when I first brought her home, whereas she seemed to like this one immediately. She inspected her from every angle and deemed her very satisfactory.

From day one they were glued to each other all day long! It's sweet how the new, young hen seems to observe everything Drusilla does, which plants she decides to eat, etc, then earnestly imitates her. I bet Dru enjoys having such a studious disciple.

Dru and Louise used to sleep in the laying boxes rather than on the perches; each of them had laid claim to a different box so that they spent the night in separate cubicles with a wall between them; in contrast, when I went to check on them the first night, I found Dru and the new hen huddled up together on the same perch.

Moreover, when it came to seeking shelter from the elements, Dru and Louise used to sit on opposite sides of the outdoor table—whereas, when it snowed a little on Day 1 after the new hen arrived, I found her and Dru hiding under the table on the same side, quietly and companionably clucking to each other.

At which point one of my friends bravely said out loud what everyone was thinking:

And, I mean, the new hen just came out of her egg this year so the age gap with 5yo Dru is probably problematic in chicken years, but also this reminded me of the most wholesome image that lives in my computer (which balances it out):

But I did mention that I got two new hens. I wanted both of them to be 10-12 weeks-old, but unfortunately the neighbour I bought them from only had one hen left in this age range. He said I could take a younger chick, and I was reluctant at first because I didn't want her to be attacked by the older hens—I could keep them separated until she grew up a bit but wouldn't she get lonely?

(This is a complete digression, but while making small talk with this neighbour I mentioned that I've had a lot going on since the beginning of the year and I was a bit exhausted, and he said "Oh, you need some birch water" and took me to the nearest birch and offered me a drink from the tree. I loved this—every time I mention any kind of ailment to a neighbour, they all have their Elixir of Choice that will solve all my problems, be it special honey as a cough remedy or whatever homemade concoction they personally swear by.

So I went home with two bottles of birch water, and promised I would have a glass every morning.)

But let's go back to chickens. Like I said I didn't want to have a smaller chick along with two older ones, because chickens can be quite mean to more vulnerable members of their coop, but then I went to look at his young chicks and quickly developed a soul connection with one of them. She seemed solitary and had a glint of existential anguish in her eyes that I identified with. So I took her home.

I also liked the fact that her feet are currently longer than her body.

As expected, the older hens are pretty rough with her, so the chick currently spends the nights in the greenhouse where it's warm, and in the morning I transfer her to the coop.

Every morning I have to slalom between a dog and a cat during the Transfer of the Chick.

She gets a supervised visit with the other hens so they get to know each other, then I let the older hens out and the baby spends the day in the coop, where she can walk around and forage safely by herself.

I initially let her have access to the indoor part of the coop, but then realised that her tormented temperament resulted in her hiding from the world in the dark all day long, so I now close the little trap so she'll spend the day downstairs.

It was obvious that she longed to look at the world but was too anxious to do so on her own, so I gently placed her on the roof of her coop so she could have a better view of the pasture, with the llamas and donkeys grazing in the distance, and it blew her little mind.

I also worried she might fail to learn important chicken social codes if she didn't spend enough time with other chickens as a child (and she didn't seem very good at socialising with her age peers to begin with) so after letting her adapt to her new home for a bit I decided to take her out of the coop, on a leash (so she wouldn't run away into the woods), for some more supervised socialising.

The other hens were fairly nice to her, they seemed less interested in hazing her when everyone was outside of the coop, but her anxiety got the better of her and she just curled up into a tiny ball and tried to disappear.

If I were a hen in a coop, even an adult one, I would be intimidated by the other hens, especially the ones who are very close friends like Dru and the new girl seem to be, so I sympathised, and deposited the little chick on the outdoor table where I was about to have my afternoon tea. I gave her some grains to eat in my saucer and, like any self-respecting chicken would, she immediately stepped in it and made a mess.

She looked a lot more confident and adventurous on top of the table! I figured, since the other hens were foraging around the table while clucking to each other, this still counted as socialising, from a safe distance, for the little one. She was a bit wary of Pandolf at first, who was going round and round the table like a fluffy shark, hoping to get a glimpse of this new animal, but once she realised he just wanted to rest his long nose on the table and look at her adoringly, she stopped paying attention to him.

And after thoroughly exploring the table, trying to taste my mandarin and then my tea, having a look at the book I was reading and then at the other hens below her—and chirping her opinions continuously the whole time—she slowly ventured onto my lap and fell asleep :')

#crawling along #i hope she grows up fast so the others can adopt her as a coopmate #but I don't regret having accepted my neighbour's offer of a smaller hen; she's so sweet

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rizzanon · 3 months ago

Text

07-1 | PARANOIA AT ITS FINEST

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“I can’t believe you’ve actually roped us into this.”

Caitlyn’s voice cut through the soft hum of chatter filling the orphanage’s main hall, carrying that distinct tone of exasperation she reserved for situations she swore she wouldn’t get involved in—but inevitably did anyway. Her arms were crossed, her stance one of feigned reluctance, but the way her gaze flickered to the children running past, the small, almost imperceptible twitch of her lips as one of them called out her name—it told a different story.

Adrien snorted beside her, nudging her side. “Oh, please. You say that like you’re not already attached to half these kids.”

Caitlyn scoffed, glancing away as if that would somehow disprove his statement. It didn’t.

It had been a week. A week since you first suggested volunteering here. A week since you first stepped into this building and felt something settle beneath your skin—something quiet, something wrong.

And yet—

Nothing.

There was nothing.

No alarms. No leads. No proof. No reason to feel this way.

Even after you snuck into the cave to tap into the Batcomputer—timing it precisely for when no one would be around, combed through records, permits, reports, and analyzed every file you could find that could tell you that this place wasn’t what it seemed—nothing. The orphanage was clean. The reports were routine. The funding sources checked out.

And that was what upset you the most.

It should have been a relief.

But it wasn’t.

Because you still couldn’t shake that feeling. That deep, gut-wrenching sensation that something was staring you in the face, something was waiting just beneath the surface, something was wrong.

Because you knew—you knew—you were missing something.

But what?

You stared across the room, watching the way the children moved, how the staff interacted with them, how everything seemed so perfect. Too perfect. The kind of perfect that made your stomach twist, that made something cold crawl up your spine because nothing in Gotham was ever truly perfect.

You crossed your arms, fingers digging into your sleeves, tension knotting itself between your ribs.

You could really use Tim’s smartness right now—

The thought barely formed before you crushed it.

No.

You weren’t going to burden him with this.

Things were still… complicated. You had distanced yourself for a reason. Bringing him into this would only drag up all the messy emotions you weren’t ready to deal with.

Maybe—maybe this really was just you overreacting.

Maybe you were seeing ghosts where there weren’t any.

Maybe that “vision” you saw was something made up in your head.

But that doesn’t explain why it was so vivid. Why it felt so raw, so real—

“You’re doing that thing again.”

Caitlyn’s voice pulled you back, and you blinked, finding both her and Adrien watching you with unreadable expressions.

“What thing?”

“You always get that look,” Adrien added, arms still crossed but his smirk growing. “Like you’re five seconds away from spiraling into an existential crisis.”

“I do not—”

“You do,” Caitlyn confirmed immediately. “You get all quiet, and your face does this thing where you look like you’re trying to solve the world’s biggest mystery when, in reality, you’re probably just making stuff up in your head.”

“I do not.”

Adrien huffed out a laugh. “Oh, yeah? Then what were you just thinking about?”

You opened your mouth, then promptly shut it, refusing to dignify that with an answer.

Caitlyn gave you a knowing look. “That’s what I thought.”

“Can we focus on something else?” You huffed, shifting your weight to one side. “Like the fact that you two are terrible influences?”

Adrien snorted. “You’re the one who dragged us into this.”

“You didn’t have to come,” you pointed out.

“You think we’d actually let you volunteer at an orphanage alone?” Caitlyn raised a brow. “Be real.”

You exhaled through your nose, resisting the urge to roll your eyes.

“You should be thanking us,” Adrien added smugly. “Especially since we’re the ones keeping you sane.”

“You call this sane?”

“Well,” Caitlyn starts, “you haven’t completely lost your mind yet, so I’d say we’re doing a decent job.”

Before you could respond, a familiar weight latched onto your side, small hands gripping onto the fabric of your sleeve.

Elliot.

You glanced down, only to be met with the boy’s wide, expectant gaze.

Elliot had latched onto you like a baby duck the second you stepped foot in this place again, and over the past few days, he had only gotten more attached. He followed you everywhere, immediately sought you out whenever you arrived, and if you so much as moved an inch away from him, he was quick to close the distance again.

And truth be told—you weren’t used to this.

This kind of closeness.

Not really.

Of course, you had experience closeness with Caitlyn and Adrien.

But Elliot—

Elliot was different.

Elliot didn’t hesitate.

Elliot didn’t keep his distance.

Elliot clung to you like you were something safe.

And you didn’t know how to handle that.

Not when you didn’t even feel safe with yourself.

“Aren’t you gonna play with us today, (Name)?” His voice was soft, hopeful, like he had already decided that whatever you answered, he wasn’t going to accept a no.

You hesitated, opening your mouth—only to stop when he gave you that look. The one you were slowly realizing was his greatest weapon. The one that made your defenses crumble.

The wide-eyed, unblinking stare.

The slight, pleading tilt of his head.

The tiniest wobble of his lower lip.

It was lethal.

And the worst part? He knew it.

“…Yeah,” you found yourself saying before you could even think about it. “Yeah, okay. Just give me a minute, okay?”

Elliot beamed.

If you had even an ounce less self-control, you might have visibly melted.

You watched as the boy ran off towards where the other kids were playing.

“Oh my god,” Caitlyn whispered dramatically.

“Precious,” Adrien added, looking between the two of you like he had just discovered his new favorite thing in the world.

“You two need to get a grip.”

“It’s cute,” Caitlyn commented. “You’ve basically adopted him at this point.”

“I have not.”

“You so have,” Adrien smirked. “It’s adorable.”

“You two seriously need hobbies.”

Caitlyn just grinned. “Says the person who dragged us here for no apparent reason.”

You opened your mouth to argue, to tell them it wasn’t for no reason, that there was something wrong with this place—

But then the air shifted.

The room didn’t go quiet, not really. The children were still playing, voices still carrying, footsteps still echoing against the floor. But something in the atmosphere changed, something subtle yet immediate, something that made the back of your neck prickle.

Something you felt more than saw.

A presence.

Mrs. Cole.

She entered the hall with a soft, pleasant smile, her hands clasped neatly in front of her, her posture calm, collected, perfect.

And yet—

Something in you immediately recoiled.

It had been this way from the beginning. The first time you met her. The first time she spoke to you. That deep, instinctive discomfort—the kind you couldn’t explain, the kind that settled beneath your skin and refused to leave.

And the worst part?

You were alone in that feeling.

Adrien and Caitlyn greeted her like normal, their smiles easy, their voices light. The other volunteers, the staff, the children—they all liked her.

But you—

You just stood there.

Watching.

Waiting.

And that gnawing feeling of unease only grew stronger.

Because something was wrong.

But you just couldn’t see it.

Mrs. Cole approached with the same composed, effortless grace she always carried—her steps measured, her smile gentle, the kind of expression that made it impossible to distrust her. She looked at ease, radiating a warmth that made people lean in instead of pull away.

But you didn’t lean in.

You were staring.

“Ah, there you all are.” Her voice was warm, measured, like honey drizzling over words that had been carefully chosen before she even spoke them. “I was just telling the staff how lucky we are to have such dedicated volunteers.”

Caitlyn beamed. “Well, it’s been great so far! The kids are all super sweet.”

You were watching.

Mrs. Cole’s reaction came exactly when it should. A gentle smile, an approving nod—textbook-perfect in a way that sent something unpleasant curling in your stomach.

“You’ve been wonderful with them,” she said smoothly. “They’ve taken quite a liking to all of you.”

A normal thing to say. A reasonable thing to say. And yet—

Something about it snagged in your brain, like a thread pulled too tight.

They’ve taken quite a liking to all of you.

Not “you’ve made a great impact on them.”

Not “they enjoy having you around.”

The wording was… off.

Why was it off?

You barely noticed Adrien chuckling beside you. “Well, Caitlyn’s the favorite, obviously. The girls follow her around like ducklings.”

Caitlyn nudged him. “Please. You’re the one they treat like a jungle gym.”

Mrs. Cole gave a small, polite laugh, like she was indulging their banter rather than truly engaging in it.

You noticed that.

You noticed everything.

You noticed how detached it felt, how it landed exactly where it needed to but carried no real weight.

The way her shoulders never fully relaxed, despite her friendly demeanor. The way her eyes lingered just a second too long before moving on. The way her responses never carried the slight unpredictability that came with casual conversation—everything was too smooth, too well-placed.

You noticed that.

And then—her eyes flicked to you.

There was no shift in expression, no telltale sign that she had noticed you just staring, analyzing every micro-movement, every carefully placed word. But the second her eyes met yours, you felt something in you go rigid, your body instinctively preparing to mask whatever she might have caught.

Which, ironically, felt unnatural.

Because you couldn’t let her see that you were suspicious of her.

“And you,” she said, the warmth in her tone undisturbed, like she hadn’t just caught you in the act of scrutinizing her. “Elliot seems especially fond of you. It’s lovely to see how much he trusts you already.”

You ignored the way Caitlyn and Adrien both smiled knowingly at the mention of Elliot’s attachment to you.

You knew you should say something pleasant. Something easy. Something neutral. Something normal.

Instead, the words that came out were flat, toneless.

“Yeah. He’s a good kid.”

An awkward pause.

Too short to be obvious, too long to go completely unnoticed.

Caitlyn’s smile faltered slightly. Adrien shifted beside you, like he could feel the weird tension in the air but wasn’t sure if he should acknowledge it.

And Mrs. Cole?

She didn’t even blink.

She absorbed the bluntness of your answer like it didn’t affect her at all, her expression remaining perfectly composed, perfectly pleasant, as if she hadn’t just been met with a wall.

“That he is,” she agreed, gracefully moving past it, as though she hadn’t just walked into a conversational dead end. “Well, I won’t keep you from the children. Thank you again for all your help.”

She excused herself with the same quiet ease she always carried, stepping away to tend to the other kids.

The second she was out of earshot—

Adrien whirled on you. “Okay, what the hell was that?”

Caitlyn groaned. “God, could you have been any drier? That was painful.”

You exhaled sharply. “I answered her, didn’t I?”

“You barely did,” Adrien shot back. “You sounded like someone forced you to acknowledge Elliot at gunpoint.”

Caitlyn smacked your arm lightly. “Dude, what’s your deal with her?”

You crossed your arms. “It’s nothing.”

“That’s definitely not nothing,” Adrien shot back. “You’ve been like this since day one. What is your deal with her?”

You opened your mouth—then closed it.

How were you supposed to explain this?

What were you supposed to say?

That something about her felt wrong, but you couldn’t prove it? That every interaction with her left you feeling like you had just missed something? That her presence made you instinctively wary in a way you couldn’t rationalize?

That no matter how hard you looked, you still couldn’t find anything to justify it?

“…I just don’t like her,” you muttered.

Adrien scoffed. “Yeah, no shit.”

Caitlyn and Adrien weren’t going to let this go.

You knew it from the second Caitlyn narrowed her eyes at you, that sharp stare she always gave when she smelled something off—when she knew someone wasn’t telling the full story. Her arms were crossed, her weight shifted slightly onto one foot, but there was a tension there, like she was waiting.

Adrien was the same. Standing beside her, his arms folded, his brow raised in quiet expectation. He wasn’t impatient—not yet—but he was watching you, like he was giving you the chance to explain yourself before he dragged it out of you.

You didn’t give them anything.

Adrien broke the silence first. “Okay, seriously. What is your problem with her?”

“I don’t have a problem with her,” you replied immediately.

Too fast. Too sharp.

Adrien scoffed. “Right. You just happen to tense up like a goddamn statue every time she’s around.”

Caitlyn gave a dramatic huff. “You act like she personally wronged you in another life. Or murdered your dogs or something.”

“Titus and Ace are fine…” you muttered.

“Exactly!” she said, exasperated. “That’s what makes this so weird! There’s no reason for you to act like this!”

You didn’t respond.

But Adrien wasn’t done. “Look, if she said something to you, if she did something—”

“She didn’t.”

“Then why are you acting like this?”

“I’m not acting like anything.”

Another lie.

But you said it so smoothly, so effortlessly, that it almost sounded convincing.

Almost.

Caitlyn’s eyes flicked over your face, sharp and discerning, scanning every microexpression, every flicker of something that might betray you. Adrien wasn’t even trying to be subtle about his suspicion anymore.

Yet, you still didn’t give them anything.

You were stubborn. Tight-lipped. Unyielding.

Because you couldn’t tell them.

Not yet.

Not when you still didn’t know what was wrong.

So instead, you acted.

Acted like everything was fine.

Like you weren’t uneasy.

Like you weren’t drowning in the feeling that something was slipping through your fingers.

Your gaze drifted past them—toward Mrs. Cole.

She was across the room, surrounded by children, laughing at something one of them had said. She knelt slightly, leveling herself to their height, hands gentle as she adjusted the collar of one child’s shirt. She was warm, present, soft-spoken—exactly what a warden of an orphanage should be.

And yet—

You couldn’t shake it.

That feeling.

That deep, gnawing unease that clung to your ribs like a second skin.

You watched her closely. The way she spoke, the way she smiled, the way her hands moved as she patted a child’s head. Everything was measured. Natural.

But was it?

Or was it too natural?

Too perfect?

Her movements were fluid, seamless, her expressions genuine. Nothing about her demeanor was off. Nothing about her gave you any reason—any reason at all—to feel this way.

And that was what unsettled you the most.

Because there had to be something.

There had to be a reason.

You just couldn’t see it.

Gotham was shifting.

Bruce could feel it.

It wasn’t something obvious—no, this was something far more subtle. A change beneath the surface, insidious and creeping. It was the kind of shift that haunted the shadows, leaving behind nothing but the unsettling sense that something was on the brink of happening. Bruce had learned to trust that feeling, that gnawing instinct that had saved Gotham more times than he could count. And right now, it was telling him that something was very, very wrong.

Another murder. A woman in her early twenties, found in a dark alley just outside a prestigious club.

Bruce sat at the Batcomputer, his fingers hovering over the keys, eyes tracing the same reports for the hundredth time.

This was the third this month.

There was nothing connecting the three victims, other than the fact that they were all young Gotham socialites.

But there was something else.

The way they were murdered. Stabbed and slashed. And the slashes—those markings—they were unmistakable.

They all had markings from a Talon. Meaning—

The Court of Owls.

Gotham was shifting, sliding beneath the surface like a shadow.

And he knew that feeling.

He had felt it before.

It wasn’t paranoia. It was an instinct.

An instinct he’d developed after all these years, after all the lies and manipulation, after the near-destruction of Gotham.

He couldn’t afford to let it happen again.

The last time the Court of Owls made their presence known, it was a brutal awakening.

The Court had been quiet for months since then. But the stillness only made him more wary. He knew how they worked—silent, methodical, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. And now, with another death on his hands, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the Court was making its move again.

And then, as if Gotham’s problems weren’t enough, another report came through. The Riddler had escaped Arkham. Again.

It had barely been two weeks since Riddler’s last stunt. Arkham had barely contained him long enough to let the city breathe before he escaped again.

Bruce could feel the weight of both issues pressing down on him, the combination of old ghosts and new ones tangled together in a knot that was suffocating.

He rubbed his temples, trying to block out the noise, the weight of it all. Gotham was shifting, and every move it made felt like it was slipping further out of his control.

And Bruce had no doubt—Nygma had already set the board.

His fingers moved across the keyboard, cycling through city surveillance, tracking movements, patterns, anything that might give him a lead. There was always a pattern with Riddler. Always a thread to follow. But right now, with the Court making their move from the shadows, Gotham couldn’t afford another high-profile attack.

He needed to tackle this immediately.

He rubbed a hand over his face, then ran it through his hair. It was too much. Too many pieces of the puzzle scattered in front of him, too many possibilities. But there was no time.

His gaze focused on the web of information splayed across the massive screen—patterns, reports, whispers of activity. Pieces that didn’t quite fit yet, but he could see the shape they were forming.

Behind him, Dick leaned against the table, arms crossed, expression unreadable. He was here. He was listening. He was doing everything Bruce had asked of him.

But Bruce could tell.

He was distracted.

Not in a way that was obvious. Not in a way that would compromise the mission. But it was there.

A slight delay in his responses. The way his gaze lingered on nothing for a second too long. The tension in his posture—not the kind that came from exhaustion, but from something else.

Bruce had seen it before.

But this time, he didn’t know what was causing it.

Not exactly.

He’d been watching him for days now, and every time they spoke, it felt like Dick wasn’t really there. His focus was on the case, sure, but it wasn’t complete. There was something else pulling at him. Bruce had tried to push it aside—he couldn’t afford to get distracted by personal issues, not with Gotham at risk—but it was hard to ignore. Dick wasn’t just distracted. He was withdrawn. And Bruce had seen that behaviour before. He knew that behaviour.

It was the way Dick stood, his arms crossed, his jaw clenched, his eyes never fully meeting Bruce’s. It was the way he moved through the cave like he was running on autopilot. Like he wasn’t really present. Like he was fighting something inside of him. And the longer Bruce let it go unspoken, the more it gnawed at him. Because Bruce knew Dick better than anyone. He knew when something was eating at him. And he couldn’t let it fester.

Not now.

“What’s on your mind?”

Dick blinked, looking up from where he had been staring at the ground. “What?”

Bruce glanced at him. “You’re distracted.”

Dick huffed out a breath, running a hand through his hair. “I’m not distracted.”

Bruce didn’t say anything. Just watched him.

“Okay, maybe I’m a little distracted.”

Bruce didn’t push. He just waited.

For a second, it seemed like Dick wasn’t going to say anything else. His mouth pressed into a thin line, and Bruce saw the muscles in his jaw tighten. It was that familiar look—the one Dick wore when he was trying to hold something back. Bruce could see it now. The weight he was carrying, the quiet frustration. He could see it, feel it, radiating off of him in waves. He shifted, arms tightening around himself. Then, finally—

“It’s (Name).”

Bruce’s shoulders tensed.

Of course.

He had heard bits from Alfred. How you were avoiding Dick, the way he had been silently carrying the weight of your distance. The way you hadn’t been talking to Dick the way you used to.

Bruce could feel it too.

Alfred had asked him to check on you. It shouldn’t have been that hard. Except, for some reason, he could never find a moment with you.

Not really.

Had it always been this hard?

No. That wasn’t right. He would’ve noticed if it had been.

Wouldn’t he?

But now Bruce was thinking, really thinking.

The last few weeks. The subtle shifts in your behavior, the way you had started slipping through the cracks before he could catch you. The way Alfred had gently suggested—more than once—that he should talk to you. The way you never seemed to be in the same room as him anymore.

The way he couldn’t remember the last time you had really spoken to him.

Not since you decided to quit being Batgirl.

Ah.

Was that what this was about?

Him letting you quit?

He had given you space because that was what he always did—he never pried, never pushed, never asked for more than you were willing to give.

But what if that was the problem.

What if he had let you drift too far?

His fingers curled against the edge of the desk, a slow, controlled movement. He hadn’t wanted to think about it before. Hadn’t wanted to believe it. Because the idea of you avoiding him—

It wasn’t possible.

Was it?

Bruce’s throat felt tight, and he didn’t understand why.

Dick exhaled sharply beside him, running a hand through his hair. “She barely looks at me anymore.” His voice was quiet, resigned. “But you already knew that.”

Bruce swallowed.

No. He hadn’t. Not really.

But if he admitted that you were avoiding Dick, then he’d have to admit that you were avoiding him too.

And he couldn’t accept that.

He wouldn’t.

He wasn’t sure why the thought unsettled him as much as it did. People had walked away from him before—people he had cared about, people who had once looked at him the way you used to. And he had let them go, because that was what he did. He didn’t hold onto things that weren’t his to keep.

But this was different.

Because it was you.

You. His daughter.

His flesh.

His blood.

Bruce exhaled slowly, letting the silence stretch between him and Dick. He wanted to ask—wanted to know just how far this distance had spread—but he wasn’t sure he was ready for the answer.

Dick, however, wasn’t finished.

“I don’t even blame her,” he admitted, his voice quiet, restrained, like he had already gone over this a thousand times in his head. Maybe he had. “She has every right to be pissed at me. I just—” His voice faltered for a second before he exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “It’s different now. She doesn’t look at me the same way. I don’t think she ever will again.”

Bruce studied him carefully. He could see it—the guilt, the regret that had been eating at him.

But what unsettled Bruce the most wasn’t Dick’s regret. It was the realization that he had assumed this was only about Dick.

That it had never once occurred to him that you were avoiding him too.

The thought lodged itself in his chest like a shard of glass. A slow, cutting thing that he couldn’t pull free.

No. That wasn’t—

You weren’t avoiding him.

You wouldn’t.

Would you?

If it was true, if you were avoiding him, it was just—just a misunderstanding. Just—

His jaw tightened.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

Not with you.

Of all the people he had failed, of all the people who had ever walked away from him, you were the one person he thought would never do that.

But had you?

Had you already left, and he just hadn’t noticed?

Bruce didn’t react. Not immediately, at least.

But Dick saw it.

The shift. The way Bruce’s shoulders tensed just slightly, the tightening of his grip against the edge of the console, the way his jaw locked. To most people, it would’ve looked like nothing. Just another one of Bruce Wayne’s unreadable silences. But Dick had spent too many years watching, reading between the lines, noticing the things that no one else did.

Bruce’s silence was never empty. It was full. Full of things he didn’t say, things he wouldn’t say.

And right now?

Right now, Bruce wasn’t just listening. He was realising something.

Dick exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “That’s what I thought.”

He hadn’t meant to bring you up—not like this, not here. But Bruce had called him distracted, and, well… he wasn’t wrong.

You had been stuck in his head for days. Weeks.

Every unanswered call. Every delayed text. Every excuse you made to get away from him as soon as possible.

Dick had tried. God, he had tried.

That lunch a few days ago—he had been hopeful, maybe even stupidly so, thinking that things could be… normal. That he could talk to you without feeling like there was a wall between you both, that you wouldn’t keep him at arm’s length.

But the moment you saw him, you were already looking for an exit.

You barely stayed long enough to eat. Said you were busy. That you had somewhere to be.

And Dick had let you go.

What else could he have done?

You had every right to do this. To be mad, to resent him, to ignore him, to pretend like he didn’t exist.

He deserved it.

Especially after what he did.

Especially after what he’s been doing for years now.

It’s not like he didn’t understand your anger towards him. He did.

He knew what it was like to feel replaced, he experienced it first-hand. He should have understood what he was doing the moment he benched you. He should have known how it’d feel like to you.

He should have handled it better. Especially since he knew at the time, you were still grieving.

But that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt. That this didn’t hurt.

But… this wasn’t just about him benching you, was it?

No.

This wasn’t the first time he made you feel like this, was it?

This wasn’t the first time he’s made you feel like you didn’t belong.

Like you were something temporary—something easily set aside.

Maybe that was the worst part.

How long had it been like this?

How long had he been like this?

He swallowed hard, staring blankly at the Batcomputer screen, but his mind was already somewhere else.

The first time he saw you, you were a baby.

He hadn’t even really processed it at the time.

Everything had been a blur—his parents were dead, his life had been turned upside down, and now he was in some massive, unfamiliar mansion with a man he barely knew and a butler who spoke to him with a kind of patience he didn’t know how to handle.

And then there was you.

You’d been brought to the manor not long after he had arrived.

A tiny thing, barely able to walk on your own.

He remembered that moment, the moment Alfred brought you into the manor. That moment burned into his memory in a way he never really questioned before. Maybe because it had been one of the only stable things in those early days, when the ground had been ripped out from under him and his life had been shattered beyond repair.

He hadn’t thought much about you at first.

He hadn’t thought much about anything except the overwhelming, gut-wrenching anger that had settled in his chest, the grief that was still raw and sharp, the sheer, desperate need for revenge that burned beneath his skin.

So he ignored you.

Or at least, he tried to.

Because you didn’t ignore him.

It didn’t matter.

It shouldn’t matter.

But time had a way of changing things.

Little by little, your presence became something else.

He didn’t know when it started. When you stopped being a stranger and started being—

Well.

You were way younger than him, but that never stopped you from being stubborn, from trying to talk to him, from wanting him to be happy. And maybe that was what got to him the most.

That innocence. That kindness.

You just wanted him to smile.

And, somehow, eventually, he did.

He hadn’t known how to deal with you.

You weren’t annoying, exactly.

You were just—

There.

Soft and small and persistent, constantly hovering on the edges of his grief, constantly reminding him that there was still something else in this house besides darkness and vengeance.

He didn’t know what to do with that.

Because somewhere along the way, things changed.

He wasn’t sure when.

Maybe it was the first time you climbed onto the couch beside him and fell asleep against his arm like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Maybe it was the first time you grabbed his hand and pulled him outside, insisting that he chase you around the garden, that he play with you, that he let himself just be a kid, if only for a little while.

Maybe it was the first time you hugged him, your tiny arms wrapping around his waist, telling him that you loved him in the simple, easy way that only children could.

Whatever it was, it had stuck.

You had become his family.

His little sister.

His responsibility.

Dick didn’t know how much of who he is today had been shaped by you, but it was more than he’d ever admit.

And maybe that was why he wanted to keep you away from the truth for so long.

From the pain, from the violence, from the endless cycle of grief and vengeance that had become his life.

He didn’t want to ruin that part of you.

Didn’t want you to know about the things he did at night. Didn’t want you to see the kind of world he and Bruce lived in.

So he never told you about Robin.

Not at first.

Not for a long time.

Not when he went on to build a new name for himself.

Not when he left Gotham and became Nightwing.

You didn’t need to know.

You weren’t supposed to know.

You were supposed to have a normal life. A safe life. One that wasn’t filled with violence and blood and pain.

That was what Bruce had wanted for you.

That was what he had wanted for you.

That was why he hadn’t told you.

And maybe—maybe, that had been a mistake.

Because when you had found out that day—

When Tim sought him out, asking him to be Robin again. When he had come to Dick with that relentless, unwavering certainty that he needed to be Robin again. That Batman needed a partner. That Gotham needed balance.

After Jason’s death had fractured something irreparably in Bruce, in Alfed, in you, in him—

God, Jason’s death.

The guilt gnawed at him, relentless, insidious, something he never let himself think about too long.

Because Jason had died wearing his colors.

Jason had died playing the role Dick had walked away from.

Being Robin. And being your brother.

Jason had died, and Dick hadn’t even been there.

Not for Bruce, not for Alfred, and not for you.

Dick hadn’t been there to stop him from taking on the job, he had not been there to stop him from going to Ethiopia, hadn’t been there to—

He just wasn’t there.

And you—

You didn’t even know the true cause of Jason’s death.

You had to find out the truth about Jason’s death—

The truth about the lives he and Bruce led—

From some random kid who somehow knew the truth before you did.

Instead of hearing it from him. From Bruce.

God.

He still remembers the way you looked at him on the day you found out the truth.

The moment you stepped into the cave that Bruce had hid from you for years.

Your arms crossed tightly over your chest, your expression unreadable—except for your eyes.

Your eyes were always so damn expressive.

And that day, they had been filled with something that made his stomach twist uncomfortably.

Betrayal.

Dick could feel Tim watching from across the cave.

He wasn’t saying anything—wasn’t even moving—but he was there, standing next to Alfred at the bottom of the stairs, barely in the shadows.

Dick almost felt sorry for the boy, for having to witness some family drama he wasn’t apart of unravel before him. But then again, he walked himself into this the moment he went to find him.

“…How long?”

Your voice was steady. Controlled.

But he knew you. Did he?

Knew how your hands clenched subtly at your sides when you were trying to keep yourself from shaking.

Knew how you bit the inside of your cheek when you were trying not to cry.

You were trying not to cry.

And it’s all his fault.

“…How long have you been lying to me?”

He didn’t know how to answer that.

Didn’t know how to explain that he had never wanted you to find out like this.

Didn’t know how to justify the years of secrecy, the years of letting you believe he was just your older brother, just the normal, easygoing Dick Grayson who had left Gotham to make a life for himself aside from being Bruce Wayne’s ward.

The years of letting you believe that he didn’t hide anything from you.

But the silence stretched too long.

And that was an answer itself.

You exhaled sharply, shaking your head.

“You were Robin.” you said, and it wasn’t a question.

It was a fact.

A truth you had just put together, piece by piece, and now it was unraveling everything you thought you knew.

Dick swallowed.

“…Yeah.”

You blinked, staring at him like you didn’t recognize him.

Like you weren’t sure if you ever had.

“Our father is Batman.”

“Yes… he is.”

“And Jason?”

Dick’s breath caught.

He looked away.

But that was answer enough, too.

Your expression twisted, something like realization dawning on your face.

“That’s why—”

You cut yourself off, exhaling sharply.

“That’s why he died? He died because he was Robin too..?”

The words hit him like a gut punch.

Dick could barely breathe.

You were staring at him, waiting for an answer, but he didn’t have one that wouldn’t make this worse.

Jason.

Jason, who had died in his colors. Jason, who had been Robin because Dick had left. Jason, who had never gotten the chance to grow up, to get out, to become something more than just a ghost haunting all of them.

Jason, who you had mourned, who you had cried for, who you had spent weeks asking Bruce about only to get nothing in return.

And now you knew the truth.

You knew everything.

And Dick felt sick.

“I—” His throat was tight. Dry. He forced himself to swallow. “It wasn’t—”

But you had already taken a step back.

Away from him. And for some reason, that single step had hurt more than any punch he’d ever taken.

“How could you not tell me?” you asked, voice sharp with something between betrayal and disbelief. “How could you just—just let me think—” You exhaled, shaking your head, hands clenched into fists. “I grieved him, Dick. I stood at his grave, wondering how he could just die like that, and you—” Your voice broke. “You knew. You knew the whole time.”

Dick winced. He wanted to reach for you. To fix this. To explain.

But what was there to explain?

That he hadn’t wanted you to know? That he had convinced himself that if you never found out, you’d be safe?

That it hadn’t mattered, because Jason was dead either way?

That was worse, wasn’t it?

So he stayed quiet.

And that silence was answer enough.

You let out a shaky breath, your expression twisting. “So that’s why you were always busy, huh? Because you were Robin. Because you’re Nightwing now. You always had something to do. Something more important.”

Dick’s hands curled into fists at his sides. “I was—”

“You were lying,” you cut him off, and Tim could see the way that made Dick flinch. “You were always lying, weren’t you?”

“I didn’t want you to get involved in this life,” Dick forced out, his voice tight, defensive in a way he hated. “I couldn’t let you—”

“Oh, right, because lying to me was so much better,” you snapped. “Keeping me in the dark was so much better—”

“I was protecting you!” Dick snapped back, his voice louder now, sharper than he meant it to be.

It echoed through the Batcave.

Tim flinched slightly in his peripheral vision.

Alfred didn’t move.

You let out a bitter laugh, something short and humorless. “Protecting me?” you echoed. “Jason is dead, Dick. And you want to talk about protection?”

Dick clenched his jaw.

You weren’t wrong.

And maybe that was the worst part.

“Why?” You took a step forward. “Why, Dick? Why wouldn’t you tell me? I thought—I thought maybe, maybe, if you didn’t have time for me anymore, the least you would do is not lie to me. That you wouldn’t keep something this huge from me.”

Dick’s mouth opened, but no sound came out.

That was what did it. That was what ruined him.

He had nothing to say, because you were right.

“I just wanted to protect you,” Dick finally said, and it was almost desperate, like he was trying to hold together something that had already cracked beyond repair.

“And you thought lying was the way to do that?” Your voice was shaking now. “You—you let me believe you just didn’t care anymore. I was so naive that you could just continue to lie to me for years, isn’t that why?”

“That’s not true,” Dick said quickly, stepping forward, but you stepped back just as fast.

You inhaled sharply. “I just want to hear you say it.”

Dick stilled.

You swallowed. “Tell me that you didn’t want to keep it from me. Tell me that it was Dad. Tell me this wasn’t your choice.”

Dick clenched his jaw.

And for a second—a brief, terrible second—you saw it.

The truth.

The answer before he even said it.

His shoulders squared, his expression unreadable, and then—

“I didn’t want you to know.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut.

You took a step back, blinking.

“What?”

Dick’s face was set, his voice firm. “Bruce told me not to tell you, but I didn’t want you to know either.”

You stared at him, uncomprehending.

“You—” You swallowed hard, your throat burning. “You didn’t want me to know?”

The betrayal was sharp, almost dizzying.

Dick flinched.

“I had to find out from him,” you suddenly snapped, pointing directly at Tim, who stiffened, eyes going wide.

“I had to find out from some random kid that has nothing to do with this—”

Tim opened his mouth. “Uh—”

“And not from you—my brother..!”

“This isn’t how you were supposed to find out,” Dick said quickly, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah?” You let out a short, humorless laugh. “Well, then how exactly was I supposed to find out then? Were you even planning on telling me the truth?”

“(Name)—”

“Or were you going to keep this from me ‘til the day I die?”

Dick took a step closer. “Please, just listen—”

“No,” you cut him off, shaking your head. “I can’t do this.”

Dick froze.

You exhaled sharply, turning on your heel and heading for the exit.

“Wait—”

But you were already gone.

Tim hesitated, looking between the empty space where you had been and the absolute wreck that was Dick Grayson standing there, unmoving, like if he did, he might actually collapse under the weight of the argument that had just happened.

The silence stretched.

And then Alfred stepped forward.

“Master Bruce is still pursuing Two-Face,” he said evenly. “I will go check on Ms (Name).”

Dick exhaled slowly, rubbing his face.

Right.

There were more pressing matters.

And they weren’t going to wait.

Dick doesn’t even know what happened after that. You two just… avoided each other.

Avoidance wasn’t new between you two, but that time, it felt different. Alfred had told him you weren’t just avoiding him—you were avoiding everyone. That should’ve made him feel better, knowing he wasn’t the only one left out in the cold. Instead, it only made the weight in his chest heavier.

For a while, he didn’t know how to fix things. Didn’t even know where to start.

Maybe that was the problem.

Then and now.

It had always been you who stepped up first, the one who reached out, patched things up, and smoothed over the cracks in whatever had fractured between you. Even back then, after weeks of avoiding him, it was you who sought him out first—apologizing for your outburst, telling him you wanted to be Batgirl.

He hadn’t been happy about it.

Of course, he hadn’t.

The last thing he wanted was for you to get pulled into this life, the same way he had, the same Jason had. But at the same time… he didn’t want you to think he didn’t trust you. Because he did.

Didn’t he?

Maybe he should’ve helped more. Trained you. Guided you the way Bruce had done for him, the way he had done for Tim. But things had been complicated—Bludhaven was drowning in corruption, Blockbuster was tightening his grip on the city, and Dick had been stretched too thin to be what you needed.

Maybe that was why things had always felt strained between you.

Why things always felt off with you and him.

He hadn’t been there for you—not the way he had been for Tim, who had started out at the same time you did. And now, he couldn’t stop himself from wondering: Was it because Tim was Robin while you were Batgirl? Was it some misplaced instinct, some part of him that thought Barbara could help you better just because she had worn the mantle first?

Or was it just him? His failure?

Dick has many regrets.

And you—you are one of them.

Not because of who you are, but because of how he handled you.

Or rather, how he didn’t.

How he stood by and watched, too consumed by his own battles, by his own pain, to see you needing him. How he told himself it was okay, that you were strong enough to handle it alone.

And maybe you were. But that doesn’t excuse him from not being there when you needed him most.

And now, for the first time, you aren’t the one bridging the gap between you.

And he hates that he’s only realising this now.

He could have fixed this—maybe. If only he’d made the effort sooner. If only he’d found the courage to do something. To make up for what he failed to do. But now, everything feels too fractured, too far gone.

And that’s what hurts the most.

The fact that you don’t seem to need him the way you once did. That maybe, just maybe, you’ve moved on from him.

The thought suffocates him.

He wants to fix it. He wants to scream at the walls, to do something to make it right, but he’s frozen. Because what if it’s too late? What if you’re done with him? What if you’ve already written him off, already decided you don’t need him in your life anymore?

The overwhelming guilt twists tighter, leaving him suffocated, alone in his own mind.

You’ve stopped waiting for him.

And it kills him.

Dick knows he’s running out of time. And for the first time in his life, he doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know how to fix it.

Not when you were avoiding him. Not when everyone he’s asked tells him to give you space, to leave you alone.

But how long more can he continue leaving you alone? When that was the exact reason you two were in this position?

His instincts tell him to give you time, let you breathe, to let the air clear before trying again. But that voice in the back of his mind screams that it’s too late. That if he waits too long, if he doesn’t move now, this—this—will be the end of whatever was left of your connection.

And the thought terrifies him.

He’s not sure if it’s pride or fear that holds him back now. Maybe a mix of both. Because even if he did try, what if you didn’t want him as your brother anymore? What if you didn’t need him in the way he still needed you?

What if the space you wanted from him was one he could never fill again?

What if it’s too late?

The coldness in the way you’ve pulled away, the way you’ve stopped needing him… he’s afraid that’s the reality.

And maybe that’s the hardest pill to swallow: that he’s powerless here. That even with all the skills, all the experience he’s had, this is one thing he can’t control.

This feels wrong. It feels so wrong, and he can’t shake the feeling that something is slipping through his fingers, something irreplaceable. You’re not just anyone. You’re his sister.

You are his little sister. And that’s why this hurts so much more.

The space between you isn’t just the distance of an argument, or a fight that can be fixed with a few words. It’s a gap between family—between two people who were supposed to always be there for each other, no matter what. And somehow, he let it slip away. He let it stretch farther and farther, until now, when it feels like he can’t reach you.

He hates this.

He hates feeling lost, unsure of how to fix something that should be simple. He’s always known what to do, always known how to make things right with his team, with anyone—everyone—but not with you.

Not now.

The years of you looking up to him, trusting him, believing in him… and now, you’re turning away. And it’s because of him. Because he wasn’t there when you needed him, and because now, when everything has broken, he’s just letting you walk away.

His thoughts spiral, each one heavier than the last. He should’ve done better. He should’ve noticed the small things—the moments where you tried, where you reached out, when you needed him to show up. He should’ve noticed everything.

But he didn’t.

It feels like too much to fix now. How can he bridge this gap? How can he even begin to make things right when you’re already gone from him, retreating, pulling away from the only person who was supposed to be there for you through everything?

How can he let you go?

He can’t. He just can’t.

Because you’re his sister. And no matter what’s happened, no matter how much space you need, he can’t just let this be. He can’t let you slip away from him, not when he still loves you so damn much, not when he’s still your brother.

Dick hates that even now, it feels like he’s still not prioritizing you. Not when Gotham is on the verge of chaos, when everything is unraveling faster than he can keep up with.

Bruce needs him—Gotham needs him. And he hates himself for thinking this, but it almost feels easier to focus on the city, on the madness, on the constant fight to keep everything from falling apart, than to face what’s happening with you. He hates that he can’t just put his focus on you without it feeling like he’s failing the entire city.

Not when the Court of Owls is seemingly starting to creep back into the shadows, when they’re pulling strings from behind the scenes. Not when Riddler is out again after his bombing less than two weeks ago. The city feels like it’s shifting into new, terrifying territories, with danger lurking in every corner.

It’s easy to justify the exhaustion, the endless grind, when the city’s on the line. But it doesn’t make the guilt disappear.

The guilt that he still hasn’t gone after you. That he still hasn’t made things right yet. Not when Bruce needs him for this, not when Gotham seems to be shifting into unknown territories.

He tried to shove it down—tried to bury the guilt—and just focus. Focus on the bigger picture.

But it’s hard.

It’s so hard.

Every time he tries to focus on something else, his mind inevitably goes back to you. He hates it.

Bruce’s brooding presence is a constant reminder that there’s always something more pressing—always a new threat looming. And yet, Dick can’t seem to escape the nagging pull of you.

“Bruce,” Dick snaps suddenly, his frustration slipping through. He didn’t mean to. He didn’t mean to bring you up again, but he needs something to clear his head. “It doesn’t matter. I didn’t mean to bring her up. Let’s get back on track.”

He barely registers the way Bruce’s gaze sharpens, the way his lips tighten in a fleeting moment of something—concern? Worry?

No, it looked more like… guilt.

But Bruce doesn’t voice it. Instead, there’s a brief pause, and then, a subtle shift in his eyes. His entire demeanor falters for the briefest second, and Dick feels it, like a change in the air, as though Bruce is about to say something.

But Bruce just sighs, a deep, tired sound, and mutters, “Alright.”

The conversation moves on, like it always does. The case file is opened again, the details of the recent murder presented to them both, as if nothing’s changed, as if everything’s fine.

But things definitely weren’t fine.

And it wouldn’t be for a long time.

Damian wasn’t one to get caught up in things that didn’t concern him. That’s what he told himself. But when it came to you, he doesn’t know why things are different now.

It wasn’t that he cared. Not really.

He was Damian Wayne, after all.

He was above things like worry, like caring too much.

But when he started noticing how you’d been waking up earlier and earlier to bake things—treats, he noted with growing curiosity—and then leaving for school with them in tow, he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

You weren’t just baking for no reason. You weren’t baking for yourself, like he had first assumed. No, you’d been bringing them to school, and that… that didn’t make sense. You weren’t that kind of person. Unless you were making it for your schoolmates.

No, that was certainly beneath you. You had to know that.

But then you started coming back late. Very late. Far later than what could be excused by a few extra-curriculars or staying after school.

That was when Damian decided to… observe.

He wouldn’t call it stalking, no. Stalking was a bit too… intrusive, in his opinion. He preferred to call it a ‘careful examination of your recent activities.’ That was much more appropriate. And so, with his usual precision, he followed you, quietly keeping his distance, ensuring you never knew he was there.

It wasn’t as if he cared. He didn’t care at all. Obviously.

But he was curious, and he wasn’t about to admit to himself that he was starting to care a little more than he should.

And that’s when he saw it.

You and two other people—a blond guy and a brunette girl—heading towards an…. orphanage?

Damian’s sworn he’s seen the blond guy somewhere, but he can’t place a finger on it.

The place wasn’t far from the manor, but it wasn’t somewhere he expected you to be.

He kept his distance, blending into the shadows as he watched you hand out the treats you’d baked to the children there. So that’s who you were making them for, he thought, his mind almost too sharp for his own comfort.

From where he stood, he observed the way you moved among the children there, your every action contrasting with the other two people you came with. Your friends, as he had identified them, were lively, and they were running around with some of the kids, laughing, playing. But not you.

No, you sat back. You were content just to watch. You were curled up on the grass with some of the other children around you, reading them books.

Books?

Damian frowned. Was that really you?

The same you who never seemed to have time for things like that? The one who always preferred to be out in the field, out on patrol with the rest of the family?

He couldn’t recall a time where you’d ever been the type to sit and do something so mundane. Yet here you were, doing it effortlessly, surrounded by the kids.

And then, of course, there was him.

A little brunette boy. Always near you. Always by your side. Clinging to you like you were his only source of comfort.

Damian’s fingers tightened into fists. His jaw clenched, but his eyes stayed on the boy. For some inexplicable reason, he hated how close he seemed to be to you. How you didn’t seem to mind. No, you were indulging him—letting him climb all over you, laughing at whatever he said.

Damian hated it.

He didn’t understand it. He didn’t understand why this bothered him so much. Why the sight of some random, orphaned kid getting your attention like that twisted something inside him.

He now watched as you and the same boy were sitting off to the side, away from the others, in a quiet corner of the yard. The kid was holding up a stuffed animal, trying to make it talk in a high-pitched voice, and you—you—were playing along, mimicking the voice and laughing as if it was the funniest thing you’d ever heard. Damian’s gaze never wavered. He could see it—the way you were smiling at him. At him, not at anyone else.

Damian didn’t get it. What was so special about this kid? Why did he have to be so attached to you?

And why did you seem so attached to him?

Why were you so at ease with a kid you barely knew for more than a week at most?

Damian hates the fact that he’s feeling like this, that he’s thinking such stupid thoughts.

He watches as the kid tug at your sleeve, saying something in your ear. How much more were you going to indulge this kid?

“Hey, (Name),” Elliot asked in his little voice, “why’s that kid just standing over there, staring at us?”

You blinked, and without thinking, your gaze followed his.

And there, standing by the fence, was Damian. His figure was stiff, unmoving, his gaze intense and unwavering as it locked onto you. His eyes were cold.

Damian’s heart skipped a beat when he saw you look up, your expression morphing from confusion to realization as your gaze fixed on him.

Damn it, he thought.

Damn it, damn it, damn it.

You knew.

You knew he had been watching.

You didn’t say anything, but he could tell. And the worst part? He didn’t even care that you caught him. He didn’t care that you’d seen him there. What bothered him was the way you’d stopped laughing, the way you’d looked away from him. That distant, almost guilty feeling he got from you.

It was clear. You were aware now.

And somehow, that made it worse.

You groaned slightly, already knowing what was coming. It wasn’t like you hadn’t expected him to follow you; it was just… typical. Rolling your eyes, you’d excused yourself from Elliot, and made your way toward the edge of the orphanage, where Damian stood with his arms crossed, leaning against the railings. The only thing separating the two of you was the metal bars, but that didn’t seem to stop him from making his presence known.

You stopped a few feet away from him, taking in the sight of his usual stubborn posture. “What the hell are you doing here?” you asked, keeping your tone casual, though there was a sharpness beneath it.

Damian’s response was as expected. “Just passing by,” he said, but you could tell it was a lie by the way his eyes darted, refusing to meet yours directly.

You deadpanned, crossing your arms and raising an eyebrow. “Really? You’re just ‘passing by’ on this side of town? When’s the last time you took a stroll over here, hmm?” you remarked, giving him a knowing look. The whole situation screamed of him being here for some other reason.

Damian scoffed, clearly not fond of being caught. He straightened up, trying to act casual, but you weren’t buying it for a second. “I don’t need to explain myself to you.”

You sighed, rolling your eyes. “You’re so stubborn, it’s exhausting,” you muttered, turning to walk towards the entrance. You glanced over your shoulder, your voice softer but more commanding now. “Come inside. Stop standing out here like a loner. It’s an orphanage, not some shady alley.”

Damian shot you a look of annoyance, but instead of refusing, he followed you, clearly annoyed by your comment. “I’m not a loner,” he muttered under his breath, but you could hear the bitterness in his tone.

You smirked, knowing you had won this one. He didn’t even try to argue as you dragged him inside, making sure to ignore his huffing and groaning. Once inside, you immediately caught Caitlyn and Adrien’s surprised expressions when they saw Damian lagging behind you.

Adrien was the first to speak, his jaw nearly dropping. “Is that Damian freaking Wayne I see?” he asked, a cheesy smile on his face.

Damian stood with his usual unimpressed look, glaring at Adrien like he had just been asked the dumbest question in the world. “Is he an idiot or just plain stupid..” he muttered, not in the mood for any more attention.

Caitlyn turned to you, a hint of confusion in her voice. “You invited your brother?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“More like he invited himself,” you replied, giving him a side-eye.

Damian just scoffed, his expression unreadable. “I’m just making sure she’s not getting herself involved in some shady business,” he muttered, clearly irritated, and yet somehow still reluctant to admit he had followed you because he wanted to.

You laughed quietly, rolling your eyes. “Yeah, sure. Whatever you say.”

Before Damian could open his mouth to retort, one of the staff came in, calling the children for their meal time. You glanced at Damian, who looked like he was trying to figure out how to stand still without getting involved, but then you pulled him over to the table where everyone else was sitting.

Damian was unceremoniously slotted between you and Adrien, who immediately started up a conversation, not sensing the tense atmosphere Damian was giving off.

Adrien, the chatterbox that he was, began asking Damian a series of ridiculous questions, which only made Damian’s discomfort more apparent. “So, Damian, heard you were homeschooled before? How’s it like going from staying in the comforts of your home to having to mingle with us commoners?” Adrien asked, his voice full of that teasing nature you were used.

Damian’s eyes narrowed slightly, though he gave nothing away. “Tt. None of your business,” he muttered, though his tone was less sharp than usual.

You couldn’t help but watch the interaction unfold, noticing how Adrien kept talking, seemingly without stopping for air, while Damian remained his usual, stoic self, barely responding but still staying present.

It was…endearing in a strange way. You had always known that Damian wasn’t someone who opened up easily, but watching him with Adrien was oddly satisfying. Adrien was persistent, and though Damian was clearly trying to distance himself from the conversation, there was a shift.

In the midst of the lighthearted banter, you caught yourself smiling a little. You knew it would take time, but somehow, Damian was warming up to Adrien’s constant energy. You knew that Adrien probably reminded him a bit of Jon—always asking questions, always talking. And now, somehow, the two of them were starting to get along.

You glanced over at Damian, his brow furrowed in a mix of confusion and frustration, and you chuckled to yourself.

Yeah, he’ll get used to him, you thought, enjoying the rare moment where your brother was forced to interact with one of your dear friends. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. And for now, that was enough.

As the kids were digging into their meals, the conversation around the table shifted, like it always did at some point—towards superheroes. One of the younger boys, Marcus, piped up with a mouthful of mashed potatoes, “Who’s your favorite hero?”

The question quickly spread like wildfire, and before you knew it, the whole table was eagerly waiting for an answer from you, Caitlyn, and Adrien. Caitlyn and Adrien exchanged glances, clearly excited. You, however, already knew where this was going. The answer was obvious.

“Don’t say Batman,” you interjected quickly before either could open their mouths. “That’s such a cop-out answer. Everyone knows Batman’s the go-to.”

Caitlyn looked at you with a mischievous grin. “Well, I wasn’t even going to say Batman anyways,” she huffed out. “Mine’s definitely Nightwing.” She leaned back, resting her arm on the back of her chair, eyes gleaming with a grin. “I mean, come on. He’s hot as hell. And have you seen that ass? Dude’s got the whole bakery goddamn!!”

You froze, your eyes wide for a split second, doing everything in your power to avoid crashing out at that. Did she really just—?

Oh god.

Damian’s gruff voice came from beside you. “Tch.”

You nudged him sharply, hoping he’d keep quiet. “Shut up,” you muttered under your breath, trying to maintain some composure, but you could feel Damian’s growing annoyance from the side of your vision. He didn’t even bother looking at you when he responded.

“What.”

“Don’t react.” You said, your voice quiet but firm.

“Richard wouldn’t like what your friend is saying.”

“Hah, if anything, he’d be honoured.”

“No he wouldn’t.”

Your friends glanced at each other, confused by your hushed but tensed conversation with your brother.

And you didn’t blame them.

After all, Caitlyn had no clue that Nightwing was your older brother, Dick Grayson, and that’s exactly why you were doing your best not to let it show. You weren’t about to explain that you didn’t want to hear her gush about his freaking butt during a nice and peaceful meal.

Adrien, always the oblivious to these things, shifted his focus to the conversation. “Well, I didn’t really mess with him before, but Robin is cool as hell. I mean, come on, he practically saved my life. Got to give the lil guy props for that.”

Damian’s posture straightened a little at that, clearly pleased by the compliment. However, he scowled the moment Adrien added, “the lil guy.”

Damian’s eyes narrowed, and he muttered under his breath, “Robin’s not little.”

Adrien raised an eyebrow, teasing. “Oh really? Well, he’s about…” He trailed off, glancing from Damian to you before continuing, “…about your height, actually.”

You almost choked on your drink, your eyes going wide.

Oh no.

Was he literally about to connect the dots—

“What a coincidence. Maybe you should cosplay as him sometime.”

Oh.

At least Adrien’s blondness is still going strong.

Damian’s answer came with no hesitation, voice completely unbothered. “Sure.”

You sighed with relief, though internally, you were in full panic mode.

Thank god that’s over.

One of the little girls, Emma, who had been quietly listening to the conversation, raised her hand excitedly. “I like Batgirl a lot!” she said with a beaming smile.

Or not.

Caitlyn turned to her, a playful glint in her eye. “Oh, really? Which one?”

Emma blinked, confused. “There’s more than one?”

Caitlyn laughed, shaking her head. “Of course! There’s the original Batgirl, then there’s… the replacement, then the ninja one that came out of nowhere, and now the really nice and friendly one.”

You frowned slightly when Caitlyn called you—or well— the former second batgirl, the replacement. But she wasn’t wrong. You had been a replacement. But you had tried making it your own, hadn’t you? That should at least be recognised, right?

You watched as Caitlyn went off into a long rant, detailing the various Batgirls from across the years. Emma and all the other girls looked wide-eyed, clearly taking it all in, though you were sure half of what she was saying was going out the other ear.

You couldn’t help but shake your head, muttering under your breath, “There’s only one right answer.”

Caitlyn, not missing a beat, grinned. “Yes, and that’s obviously the OG!!! I miss her. I wonder what happened to her. She just stopped showing up for years now.”

Oh.

You grumbled, unable to refute the fact that she was right. The OG Batgirl was the best, no question. Barbara created Batgirl on her own. She owned it. But…come on, you had to back yourself up here.

Adrien piped up, “Nah, the blonde one’s the best. She’s cool and real fun.”

You deadpanned at him. “You’re kidding, right? That’s your pick?”

“What? Am I wrong?” Adrien asked, genuinely confused.

You huffed, leaning back in your chair. “Very.”

“You’re both wrong.”

At that moment, Damian’s voice broke through, and everyone turned to look at him.

You glanced at him, not sure if you had heard him correctly. “What did you say?”

Adrien looked at Damian, raising an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? Who is it, lil guy?”

Damian’s gaze shifted to the table, his voice as steady as ever. “The best Batgirl is obviously the third. She’s the most proficient and the best fighter.”

You stared at Damian, deadpan.

Of course he picked her.

Of course, he’d back the best fighter—always.

For one fleeting second, you actually thought he was talking about you.

But of course he wasn’t.

You didn’t know why you even entertained the possibility of him choosing you. For half a second, you thought—just thought—that maybe, just maybe, he’d acknowledge you. But no. Obviously not.

You should’ve known better.

“What?” Damian asked, noticing your stare.

“Nothing,” you muttered, though the way you immediately crossed your arms said otherwise.

But it wasn’t nothing. It was mild irritation mixed with some very well-earned pettiness. It wasn’t like you expected him to say you were the best Batgirl, but still! You’d think your own brother would at least pretend you were a contender! For a moment, you really thought Damian would pick you.

But of course he didn’t. You weren’t even in the running.

Fine. Fine.

If Damian was going to be like that, you weren’t going to let him off easy.

“You know who’s not the best?” You paused for effect. “The current Robin.”

The temperature in the room seemed to drop.

Adrien and Caitlyn both turned to you, looking confused. Meanwhile, Damian—oh, Damian froze. His head snapped toward you, expression shifting in real time, his usual blank stare morphing into something far more hostile.

“What did you just say?” His voice was calm. Too calm.

You leaned back in your chair, feigning nonchalance. “I said the current Robin is overrated. He’s fine, I guess. But people act like he’s some unstoppable force of nature, and honestly? I don’t see it.”

Damian’s eye twitched.

Adrien let out a short laugh, glancing between you two. “Wait, why does it sound like you personally hate him?”

“I don’t,” you said. “I just think he’s too aggressive. Like, okay, congrats, you were probably trained since birth, but does that really mean you have to act like everyone else is beneath you? Maybe try teamwork sometime.”

Damian scoffed. “Tt. You mean like how the second Batgirl worked with her team? Oh, wait. She didn’t even have one.”

You stiffened slightly. “Excuse me?”

“She was reckless,” Damian continued, now fully engaging in the argument. “Unrefined. She relied on brute force and emotion instead of strategy, which is exactly why she never measured up to her predecessor.”

Your eye twitched.

Oh. It’s on.

“Well, the current Robin acts like he’s the smartest person in the room,” you shot back. “Always belittling everyone he works with, always convinced he knows best—”

“Because he does,” Damian cut in smoothly, sharp.

You narrowed your eyes. “Oh, please. Batgirl was just as skilled—”

“Skilled?” Damian repeated, looking almost offended. “She was a brute. She had no tactical foresight, no patience, no discipline—”

“She gets the job done,” you interrupted.

“And leaves chaos in her wake,” Damian countered.

“Oh, because Robin doesn’t leave a mess?”

“At least his messes serve a purpose.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “And at least she wasn’t a condescending little—”

“Okay, wait, wait, wait, pause,” Caitlyn suddenly cut in, raising her hands. She and Adrien were staring at you two, completely baffled. “What is happening right now?”

Adrien tilted his head, looking between you and Damian. “Yeah, why do you two sound like you’ve got some kind of personal vendetta against Robin and Batgirl?”

You and Damian both froze slightly, suddenly realizing just how heated this was getting.

You coughed, quickly forcing a neutral expression. “No, definitely not.”

Damian straightened his posture, clearing his throat. “Tt. Of course not.”

Adrien and Caitlyn exchanged a look.

“…Right.” Caitlyn tilted her head. “You sure you guys don’t secretly have some grudge against them?”

Adrien hummed in thought. “Or maybe they just don’t like heroes who remind them of themselves?”

The silence that followed was deafening.

You and Damian both turned to glare at Adrien, who just retreats behind Caitlyn.

You huffed, crossing your arms. “Whatever. The current Robin’s still annoying.”

“And the second Batgirl is too stubborn.”

Caitlyn frowned, looking thoughtful. “I don’t know…I always thought the second Batgirl and Robin actually worked well together. Like, whenever they were seen in the same place, their fighting styles just fit. Like they just got each other’s back, you know? At least, from what I’ve seen.”

Your jaw tensed. You pointedly avoided looking at Damian, and you knew he was doing the same.

Caitlyn’s words echoed in your head, looping over and over again like an intrusive thought you couldn’t shake.

“I always thought that Batgirl and Robin worked well together. Like, whenever they were seen in the same place, their fighting styles just fit. Like they just got each other’s, you know?”

No. No, you didn’t know.

Because that wasn’t true.

It couldn’t be true.

Because if it was true, then—

Then what did that mean?

If you and Damian worked well together—if your fighting styles “fit”—if you “just got each other”—then why hadn’t it been enough?

Why hadn’t it felt enough?

Why hadn’t you been enough?

Why had it felt like you were always fighting for validation?

Why did it still feel like Damian only ever saw you as a burden on the field?

If you had actually worked well with him, then why hadn’t he said anything back then? Why hadn’t he—

You exhaled sharply, shoving the thoughts away.

No.

Caitlyn was wrong. She had no idea what she was talking about.

“You’re giving them too much credit,” you said, shaking your head. “They didn’t work well together.”

Caitlyn blinked. “What? No, they totally did.”

You scoffed. “They barely tolerated each other.”

“I don’t know about that,” she said, tilting her head. “They just… understood each other. You could see it in the way they fought. Like, Robin always knew where that Batgirl was gonna move next, and vice versa. It’s like they were in sync without even needing to say anything.”

Your fingers curled slightly.

No. That wasn’t—

That wasn’t—

That was just necessity.

That was pattern recognition.

That was forced proximity because you had no choice but to move together or risk getting each other killed.

That didn’t mean you worked well together.

It didn’t mean Damian saw you as an equal.

It didn’t mean—

“I suppose the second Batgirl is not… entirely incompetent.”

It was barely more than a murmur, but it was enough.

Enough to make the conversation still. Enough to make all of you turn.

Damian’s eyes flickered downward, arms crossed, his expression a mask of impassivity.

But that sentence. That one hesitation.

It meant something.

Your brain stuttered.

Of all things—that was what he said?

Damian Wayne—the boy who had no patience for weakness, who barely tolerated most people, who was damn near incapable of giving credit where credit was due—just admitted that?

And then—

Then he kept going.

“She’s… effective,” he admitted, as if the words physically hurt. “Her combat style is instinct-driven, but adaptable. It lacks structure, but it’s—tt—unpredictable. It forces opponents into a rhythm they’re unfamiliar with. It’s inefficient, but it works. Works for herself. And works for Robin too.”

You blinked.

That wasn’t just some throwaway comment. That wasn’t just begrudging approval.

That was acknowledgment.

You had spent years training. Learning to move, to fight, to make up for every weakness you had. You wanted someone to see that. Your father, Dick, Barbara—hell, even Jason. But you’d never expected him to see it. To notice.

Much less appreciate it.

And yet, here he was, admitting that you were—what? Unpredictable? Capable?

Your mouth opened slightly, but the words never came. You just stared, feeling something unfamiliar twist in your stomach.

You weren’t used to this.

Weren’t used to this at all.

Definitely not from Damian. After everything—

Caitlyn sighed, leaning back. “Yeah, I suppose so. A lot of people in the East End like her, from what I’ve heard.”

The weight of Damian’s words still lingered, but Caitlyn’s casual addition made something inside you shift again.

“But I haven’t exactly seen her in the past few weeks. Wonder what happened?”

And just like that—

That fleeting warmth vanished.

Your body tensed, fingers curling into your palm so tightly that your nails dug into your skin.

“She quit,” you said before you could stop yourself.

It was too sharp. Too final.

You knew it the second it left your mouth.

And it showed.

Adrien and Caitlyn turned to you, their confusion immediate.

They weren’t just confused by the statement itself.

They were confused by how you said it.

By how certain you sounded.

Realizing your mistake, you scrambled to correct yourself, forcing your voice into something lighter. “I mean, I heard she quit. I guess.”

There was a beat of silence.

Caitlyn hummed thoughtfully. “Oh. What a shame.”

And then—

“It’s a load of bullshit.”

Damian’s voice was edged with something sharp.

You turned to him, frowning. “And what exactly do you mean by that?”

Damian exhaled sharply, arms still crossed. “That Batgirl—assuming she really did quit—is an idiot.”

Your jaw clenched.

“She wouldn’t have quit if she didn’t think she was making an impact.”

“But she did,” Damian said, tone clipped, like it was obvious.

Your breath caught.

“She made an impact. Gotham is worse with one less hero. But she’s too dumb and socially inept to realize that.”

The words slammed into you like a brick wall.

It wasn’t mockery. It wasn’t insulting for the sake of it.

It was genuine frustration.

Damian was angry—not because he didn’t like her—but because she left.

You left.

Because you gave up.

As if you didn’t see what you were to Gotham.

But did you even mean something to Gotham?

Your lips parted slightly, but the words wouldn’t come.

Because what were you supposed to say?

What were you supposed to do with the fact that Damian cared?

That he was fighting for her—for you—when you had convinced yourself no one would?

Damian never defended things like this. He never cared enough to.

But here he was, riding this hard.

For Batgirl.

For you.

And you—

You didn’t know what to do with that either.

The air was too thick. Too heavy. The tension sat like a weight between you both.

You turned away, pressing your lips into a thin line. Damian did the same.

And you could feel your friends shift uncomfotably in their seats after that awkward conversation that they got lost in.

“I like whoever (Name) likes.”

Elliot, small but absolute in his convictions, piped up with the kind of unwavering certainty that only kids had.

You barely had time to react before something in your chest tightened, an ache so unfamiliar that you almost mistook it for something else.

Fondness.

You ruffled Elliot’s hair gently, watching as he beamed under your touch, his loyalty so simple, so unquestioning.

“At least someone knows who truly is the best,” you said, your voice soft but amused.

Adrien, clearly irked by the favoritism, complained, “Hey, no fair! That lil guy just goes along with whatever you say. That’s not counted.”

The words were playful, but they settled something in you—if only for a moment.

A brief, fleeting peace.

You risked a glance at Damian, but found his expression unreadable.

And that made you tense even more.

Because how did one conversation just destroy whatever rapport you’d built with him over the last few weeks?

You opened your mouth to say something but—

“Oh! Looks like you’ve brought along another person.”

And just like that—

Everything in you froze.

Your breath stilled.

Your fingers twitched.

Something cold wrapped around your ribs, tightening.

Mrs. Cole.

She moved toward your group, all warm smiles and polished perfection. But you knew.

You knew better.

The warmth didn’t reach her eyes. The perfection was too smooth, too calculated.

And yet, your friends didn’t see it.

They didn’t feel it.

They didn’t feel the unease sinking into your bones, clawing its way under your skin.

You straightened instinctively, every nerve in your body suddenly alert.

You felt your jaw lock.

And you just stared at the old woman standing in front of you and your friends.

When you didn’t move to introduce Damian, Caitlyn, ever polite, started to do it for you.

“Oh, this is—”

“Damian Wayne,” Mrs. Cole interrupted smoothly, smiling. “Son of Bruce Wayne. Of course, I know him.”

Then, with a turn of her head, her gaze landed on you.

And despite the kindness in her expression—

Something inside you shrank.

“I apologise,” she said gently. “I should have realised earlier that you were, in fact, (Name) Wayne. I hope you weren’t too offended.”

Every syllable was measured. Smooth.

There was nothing wrong with what she said.

But your mind churned.

Something in you twitched.

Something itched beneath your skin, something you couldn’t place.

A meaningless pleasantry? Or a subtle dig? A test? Did she expect you to be offended? Was she gauging your reaction?

Your eyes flickered to her face, scanning for any indication of intent. The tiniest shift in expression. A microsecond of amusement. A twitch of satisfaction.

A crack, a slip—anything.

But there was nothing.

Just polite words and a soft tone.

Just surface-level kindness.

Not a misstep. Not a single crack in her perfect facade.

It made your stomach turn.

Your thoughts tangled, looping over themselves, spiraling deeper into your own paranoia—

And then you realized you had been silent for too long.

Too long for it to be normal. Too long for it to be anything but weird.

You scrambled for a response, grasping for something, anything—

“It’s fine.”

It came out rough. Stiff. Completely unnatural.

Like a person forgetting how to be a person.

Mrs. Cole only smiled. If she noticed your awkwardness, she was far too polite to acknowledge it.

Adrien and Caitlyn, however, were not.

You saw it immediately—the way Caitlyn pressed her lips together to keep from groaning, the way Adrien squeezed his eyes shut like he had just physically felt secondhand embarrassment.

Yeah. Yeah.

That was bad.

You wanted to fling yourself out the nearest window.

Mrs. Cole, as if unfazed, turned back to Damian.

“I hope everything here has been to your liking.”

Damian regarded her for a moment before giving a clipped, formal response. “The conditions appear satisfactory.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” she replied easily. “We do our best to provide a safe environment for all the children under our care.”

You didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t breathe.

Just listened.

You tried to read him.

Tried to see if he felt it too.

If he sensed that something was off with Mrs Cole.

But—

Nothing.

Damian’s expression was unreadable, sure. But that wasn’t new.

What was new was that he didn’t seem to think anything of her at all.

“Well,” Mrs. Cole finally said, brushing nonexistent dust from her sleeve. “I have other matters to attend to. It was lovely meeting you, Damian.”

She smiled, nodding at Caitlyn and Adrien before turning back to you.

“And you, of course, (Name).”

Then—

She was gone.

Moving seamlessly through the orphanage, weaving between staff and children like she belonged there.

You exhaled shakily.

You had overanalyzed every movement, every syllable. Had searched for something.

And yet—nothing.

No proof. No reason for this unease gnawing at your ribs.

And yet, it didn’t go away.

It never went away, no matter what you did.

No matter what you tried convincing yourself with.

And as you sat there, stiff and silent—

You failed to notice the way Damian was watching you.

Expression unreadable.

Eyes sharp.

Like he had seen something.

Something off.

Something he couldn’t quite place.

long awaited chapter 7 lol… did you guys miss me 🥰🤗 also ramadan mubarak to all my muslim homies and girlies 🫶🫶part 2 here in a few hours after posting this, will answer my asks after posting part 2 <3

taglist is closed ‼️

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rafesangelita · 3 months ago

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♡ babydaddy!rafe and pogue!sweetheart!reader see their baby via ultrasound for the first time!

warnings: pregnancy, sweet fluff, both reader and rafe crying, medical terminology, brief flashback, small time skip

a/n: pogue!sweetheart!reader is only pregnant in this universe alone! if you want to read more of her and babydaddy!rafe you could click the tag with their pairing down below or you could just go to pogue!sweetheart!reader’s masterlist <3

“alright, mom and dad.. are we ready?” you and rafe shared a look, your eyes fluttering closed as he pressed a kiss to the corner of your lips. taking hold of rafe’s hand, you hissed softly once you felt the warm clear jelly smear against your tummy. “so this might take a minute because i have to find the perfect spot, but if you feel any kind of discomfort just let me know.” the technician smiled sweetly as both you and rafe zeroed in on the monitor screen. he was so gentle and tender with you, his large build crouched down next to yours as he whispered encouragements in your ear.

“you’ve been doing so good, baby, you’re already the best mommy ever,” he praised you, “i love you so much, there’s no one else i’d want to be doing this with.” you were already so emotional before and during your appointment, you couldn’t help but get teary eyed at his words. “i love you, too.” you sniffled, averting your attention back to the ultrasound machine. “here we are!” you gasped when the technician got the right spot, the image of your baby illuminating the screen. “oh!” you melted at the sight as rafe rubbed your arm, his bottom lip trembling as the tiny little thing stared back at the two of you.

“so what you’re seeing right here is the head,” she paused the image, pointing a finger at the monitor, “and if you look closely you could see the daintiest little button nose i’ve ever seen.” you giggled, tears streaming down your cheeks now as she moved the transducer over your lower abdomen. “so since you’re at ten weeks, that means baby is about as big as a strawberry right now.” rafe stared down at you in awe, his heart feeling so full in this moment. his baby was having his baby, he couldn’t grasp just how beautiful that really was.

“look at the tiny feet!” you squealed. you were smiling so hard that your cheeks hurt. if you were already dying of cuteness overload right now, you couldn’t imagine the pure and utter joy you’d feel once your little one was finally in your arms. “please tell me we could take home copies today..” you cried, sighing in relief once the technician nodded. “of course! i’ll start taking those pictures right now.” rafe wrapped an arm around your chest, leaning down so he could leave a trail of small pecks along the underside of your jaw. “oh, man, can you believe this?” he asked incredulously.

you shook your head, stroking the skin of his arm as you admired the different angles that popped up on the monitor. you’ve been pregnant for well over a month, already going on two and it was barely starting to hit you right now that you were really growing something inside of you. the feeling was surreal almost, like you couldn’t even articulate the words to describe how whole you felt having rafe by your side through absolutely everything. “no, not at all.” you whispered, clinging onto him as if he’d disappear into thin air if you let him go.

thinking back to whenever you first met rafe, you would’ve never thought in your most wildest dreams that you’d be having his baby. you two were so brand new to everything, the excitement never dwindling in your relationship. you were sweet and kind, and just overall good, rafe hoped with every fiber of his being that his baby would inherit every ounce of your heart. your gentle and nurturing nature was unlike anything he had ever experienced before. to feel your love all around him no matter how close or far you were, he had no doubt in his mind that your baby could feel the same love tenfold.

rafe was in pure bliss just thinking about seeing you carry a baby on your hip everywhere, that smile of yours adorning your lips as you gaze up at him through your lashes. the vision was so vivid, he felt his heart squeeze in his chest at finally having everything he ever wanted right in front of him. “are you two going to find out the sex after your first trimester, or will you be waiting until birth?” you pouted once the technician started cleaning you up, her screen going blank as she shut it off. “we’ll be finding out with a gender reveal.” rafe smiled, helping you sit up.

“that won’t be very long then,” she raised her eyebrows excitedly, “you’re not really showing just yet, but this is completely normal, especially since it’s your first pregnancy.. but any day now, and you should start seeing a little bump.” you smiled, lifting your arms up so rafe can adjust your clothes. “aw, i can’t wait.” you were already thinking of the shopping spree you’d have to go on in order to accommodate your new shape. yoga pants and fuzzy slippers here you come. “i’ll be right back with those photos!” she scurried out of the room, leaving you and rafe staring at each other in disbelief.

“i hope she prints enough copies, i want one for everywhere. the house, the truck, my purse—” rafe interjected, “oh! and one for my wallet—”

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lisired · 8 months ago

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DREAM BOYS: slut me out

pairing: shy!jisung x (f) reader

genre/warnings: smut, unprotected sex (before you tap it make sure you wrap it), oral (m) receiving, switch!jisung, switch!reader (at least i think so… i wanna say there’s not really strong dom/sub dynamics here)

summary: The Dream Boys are notorious for banging everything on campus with a pulse and breaking hearts, but every time you see Jisung, you can’t help but think he’s nothing like them; he can barely even look into your eyes.

word count: 5.3k

a/n: i wrote this on a whim lol. as always, feedback is appreciated!

If I was a bad bitch,

I’d wanna fuck me too

There was something about Park Jisung that confused you to no end.

For one, you wondered how a boy could be so awkward. You weren’t even this bad at your peak of social ineptitude, but he somehow seemed to always be shy and blushing.

The most baffling thing about him, however, wasn’t just his timid personality and lack of confidence around the opposite sex. It was his ability to get along so well with people who were the complete opposite of him.

Everybody at your school knew him and his friends collectively as the Dream Boys and they were notorious on campus for allegedly fucking every girl they set their sights on. You had no way of knowing how true that was, but based on nothing but vibes alone, most of them you didn’t doubt one bit.

Mark, the sweet boy who posted bible quotes on his story every morning. Jeno, the intelligent one who obviously didn’t buy his way into college. Jaemin, the campus heartthrob everyone wanted to bring home to Mama. And Haechan, the party boy who was never not hungover.

But Jisung was something different entirely. You had no idea why he hung out with them at all. Your interactions with him had been limited thus far, but he stammered out every sentence he spoke and could hardly maintain eye contact.

There was no way in hell he was a whore.

The school library had unfortunately become your second home over the past few weeks and you were lounging at a table with your friends when Ryujin whispered, “Looks like the Dream Boys are throwing another Halloween party this year. I hope there’s no more cum punch rumors. I almost threw up because of that shit.”

Yuna winced. Those rumors had positively ruined the drinking last year for everybody. “Dream Boys? More like fuckboys.”

You snickered. You didn’t have a clue where the name came from, but you couldn’t resist quipping, “And what did you think they dreamed about?”

“Pussy,” she answered without hesitation.

You laughed again. The boys were handsome, you would give them that, but they also gave the impression that they were carrying sexually transmitted infections yet to be unearthed by health authorities.

Ryujin seemed like she was reading from her phone, probably gathering more information about the aforementioned party, and soon enough she chirped, “No worries, guys. Haechan just posted that there will not be any cum punch, but everyone should watch their drink.”

“I won’t be attending,” you replied with total disinterest. “Have fun potentially drinking some random dude’s kids.”

Ryujin groaned, but she had been expecting that response. It was no secret you had something against those boys because of their fuckboy reputation and while she didn’t blame you for that, she didn’t see it as an excuse to skip out on harmless fun. “You’re so boring.”

You shrugged, indifferent. “If boring means spending my free time watching Shemar Moore chase bad guys in two different universes, both of which he’s incredibly sexy in, instead of risking my tongue falling off, then I’ll be that.”

“You both are disgusting,” Yuna said in disapproval. “You want to fuck someone’s bald dad and Ryujin wants to fuck Haechan.”

Ryujin gawked. “That’s a lie!”

Yuna wasn’t convinced. “Admit it. The only reason you want to go to this party after last year’s fiasco is because you know Haechan will be there and you want to suck his dick until the foreskin dries up like a raisin.”

You made a face. The graphic description was putting unholy pictures in your mind that you would rather not see. “Yeah, I’m gonna go. You girls got that,” you told them as you rose from the table, tossing your bag over your shoulder. “I will see you guys when I emerge from my Netflix binging.”

Meanwhile, Jisung was by himself in the break room of the local cafe he worked at trying desperately to think of something that would undo the boner in his pants before his co-workers saw him and teased him to hell and back. It wasn’t even because of a pretty customer this time. He was just daydreaming.

Was it a smart thing to do while he was at work? No, maybe not. But he couldn’t help it. His mind had been filled with perverted thoughts lately. It was the second week of October and Jisung was attempting to get all of the sexual frustration out of his system before the start of No Nut November.

He had been the first one to lose last year. And the year before that. And the year before that. This year, he needed a turnaround.

When his boner wouldn’t go down as soon as he’d hoped, Jisung ultimately decided to go wank it in the bathroom as quietly as possible and got back to work. And to his luck, you were standing right there at the counter waiting for someone to take your order.

Jisung swallowed when he saw you. He had always found you gorgeous and seeing you after orgasming made his brain short-circuit. With a little plan to increase his body count another digit, he went up to the counter and put on his shyest performance. “Hello. What can I get for you today?”

Your brows furrowed. He didn’t sound as bashful as he looked. That said, he sounded like he was donning his customer service voice, and everybody knew that the person you were at work didn’t reflect your true self. “Hi, can I get the Jasmine green tea, please?”

Jisung kept his eyes trained to the screen the entire time, even though he wanted nothing more than to look at you. “Sure thing. Would you like any add-ons?”

“Tapioca pearls. Extra, please.”

God, the way you kept saying, “Please,” was driving him crazy. He knew you were simply being polite, which was more than he could say about some customers he got, but it was making him picture other situations where he could have you begging for him.

“Will that be everything?” Jisung asked as if his thoughts hadn’t wandered somewhere dangerous.

You nodded your head, taking out your card. “That’s it.”

While you were temporarily distracted by having to pay, Jisung took the opportunity to get a better look at you. His eyes flitted to your lips that were coated in a clear gloss which made them look plumper. It was all he could do not to think about how perfect they would look wrapped around his cock.

“I heard you and your friends are throwing a party tonight,” you mentioned, waiting for your order to be processed. Not that you gave a damn. You just wanted something to talk about.

Jisung was pleased you didn’t seem to notice his less than clean thoughts, but when you mentioned the party, he stifled a groan. “Yeah, I can’t go. I have a closing shift.”

“Damn, that must suck,” you replied, watching the hint of annoyance spread across his face. “When do you guys close, by the way? I was thinking about getting some work done.”

“We close at nine,” Jisung told you matter-of-factly. “Don’t you usually work in the library?”

You lifted a brow, smiling softly. “Are you keeping tabs?”

Jisung glanced away. Make no mistake, he wasn’t stalking you or anything, but he did happen to see you in the library whenever he popped inside. You were there more often than not. “I see you around every now and then.”

You hummed. “To answer your question, I do usually work in the library, but my friends are being insufferable today and I knew I wasn’t gonna get any work done around them, so I hopped ship.”

Jisung nodded his head in understanding. “Yeah, I get it. My friends are pretty annoying at times too.”

You had an obvious disdain for boys in his group, but for some reason, you were always so nice to him. It was almost as if you had some kind of soft spot. Jisung wondered if he could manipulate that kindness. He figured you must have assumed he wasn’t as bad as the men he surrounded himself with, which couldn’t have been more wrong, but you didn’t need to know that.

There was no opportunity for you to give him a response, because his co-worker placed your drink in front of you, saying, “Here you go, one Jasmine green tea, extra tapioca pearls.”

You thanked them and glanced back at Jisung, telling him, “I’m gonna go find a seat,” and walked away.

Jisung was disappointed, but it was better than you leaving. And in truth, it wasn’t so bad, because it gave him a little more time to think of a way of getting you to go home with him. He didn’t want to lose for the fourth year in a row since he started college, and you were a beautiful girl that thought highly of him for whatever reason.

You were still lingering in the cafe a few hours later and it was that time of night where Jisung had to start excessively wiping counters to appear busy, because he didn’t expect many more customers.

But you were the only customer in sight and he was the only employee at this hour, so he approached your table and inhaled a deep breath. “Hey, do you mind if I ask you something?”

You glanced up at him, wanting to giggle at how nervous he seemed for whatever reason, but resisting. “Sure.”

Jisung started fidgeting with the rings on his long fingers, which drew your attention to his hands, specifically how big they were. “Can I sit down?”

You wordlessly nodded over at the seat in front of you.

With one more small glance in the direction of the door, which didn’t appear to be welcoming more customers any time soon, Jisung slid into the booth. You both sat there in silence until he finally willed himself to speak. “So, I was wondering… can I ask you a favor?”

You were tempted to respond with, I wasn’t aware I owed you any. But you were very curious to know where this was going, so you decided to let him get straight to the point. “Depends. What’s the favor?”

“Promise not to tell anyone?” he asked.

“Sure, I’ll promise,” you replied, nodding. “As long as you’re not about to ask me to hide a body.”

That threw Jisung off guard and he quickly shook his head. “What? No, of course not. Look, uh, I need a favor from you, but it’s something kinda…”

Pushing down the top of your laptop, you held your face in your hands and gave Jisung your undivided attention. You were beginning to suspect that it was a favor of a sexual nature.

When you looked at him like that, Jisung glanced away. “It’s kinda embarrassing to say, but I was wondering… if I could come to your house.”

Now that was definitely a surprise. “My house?”

Jisung nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. “Yeah, that’s what I was wondering. I’m sorry, I know it’s weird. I just…”

Your brows furrowed. Jisung had been to your apartment before. Once. Twice, if you counted him having to come back because he forgot his notebook. Either way, you weren’t necessarily friends and it only happened because of an assignment, the fact that the library had been completely packed, and your apartment was nearby.

“Why?”

“Well… I wanted to know if you could help me with something.”

“You’re so vague,” you teased. “What do you need?”

Jisung exhaled a breath and decided he was just going to come out and say what he meant. “Listen, this is gonna be kinda weird, and if you say no I completely understand and will leave you alone for the rest of my life. But me and my friends are preparing for No Nut November and…”

“And you want to get all of the horny juice out of your system so you don’t nut on the first day like a loser,” you finished for him. It wasn’t that hard to guess, all things considered. “You know it doesn’t work like that, right?”

“It does,” he insisted. He said nothing else, waiting for you to either agree to blessing his cock tonight or let him suffer, and hoping you chose the former.

You had already made your mind up, but you pretended to be uncertain, shrugging your shoulders. “Why me?”

Much to your surprise, Jisung didn’t skip a beat. “You’re the only girl I didn’t think would judge me.”

And that was exactly how he won you over, because you hurriedly began packing up your things to go home and get a shower before Jisung could get there. Maybe shave too. You didn’t go bald, but a little trim had never hurt anybody.

Almost the very second his shift ended, Jisung was in his car growing increasingly more frustrated at every encountered red light as he drove as fast as he possibly could without going over the speed limit.

When he rang the doorbell, you almost immediately answered the door, wearing nothing but a shirt that looked far too big for someone of your stature. “What took you so long?” you asked, widening the door so he could enter.

“Lots of traffic tonight,” Jisung replied, waltzing inside your house as if his heart wasn’t thumping in his chest at the idea of getting fucked.

You closed the door and led him to the bedroom. The soft, feminine smell of your body wash clung to you and the scent was already driving him crazy with lust.

Jisung glanced around your bedroom, happy to be back here again. The last time he was inside your bedroom, he’d seen your panties spilling out of their drawer and it had taken everything in him to focus on the assignment at hand.

His eyes fell to your delicious legs which were smooth and shiny. No doubt you had just gotten out of the shower. You got ready for him, which had to count for something. You had consented to fucking him, after all, so your interest in him couldn’t have been any more blatant.

You plopped on your bed, noticing the way he was drinking in the sight of you. “Don’t just stand there,” you said, stifling a giggle.

Jisung swallowed the unignorable lump in his throat. “What do you want me to do?”

You hummed, pretending to think about it. “Come here.”

He took tentative steps towards your bed. It was adorably pink and fluffy, and he almost felt bad for knowing it was going to be ruined by the time he returned home. Then, he started thinking about what else was pink, and from that point on his mind began reeling with lewd thoughts.

You had to pull Jisung onto the bed, shoving him onto his back. The gasp he made was cut off by your lips smashing against his as you kissed him like your life depended on it, gently tugging on his black hair. You didn’t want to hurt him, but at the same time, that was exactly what you wanted.

It pleasantly surprised you that Jisung was a decent kisser. You could tell he had some kind of experience, which was fair since he was a grown man with very obvious needs, and your panties were pooling with arousal when his hands drifted to your waist as you straddled him, pulling you flush against his rapidly hardening cock.

As if he wasn’t already struggling to breathe enough, you broke the kiss and began trailing your lips faintly over his jaw. Then his neck. Then his collarbone. He figured you would go down again to his chest, but you went back to his throat and started sucking and nibbling at the flesh.

“Fuck,” Jisung panted, already worked up and you had barely done anything together so far. He was sure you could feel how hard he was, given that he was pressed right against you, but you went about kissing him as if you had no clue.

His reactions did make you giggle smugly though, quite proud of yourself. The marks you were leaving at the base of his neck were going to be there for days. Maybe weeks. The room felt hotter now that you were making such a mess of him. He brought his hands up from your perfect waist to your under your shirt, his fingers ghosting over your breasts.

It was your turn to gasp out. The soft sounds you made did wonders to turn him on. He cupped your chest in his big palms and let his thumb work over the stiffened nipple. All the while, you were beginning to grind against his bulge as your lips wandered here and there, drawing a guttural groan from Jisung’s throat.

“Oh my god,” he said, stilling your hips with his strong hands. Something your body liked more than you cared to admit.

You met his eyes. They were filled with lust and desire and impatience. “Are you okay?”

Jisung nodded his head, glancing at your body. He was hoping you would get out of that shirt sooner than later. He wanted to see you. “It’s just…,” he trailed, his voice faint. “I’ve never done this before.”

You didn’t gawk. You didn’t laugh. There was no amusement nor was there any surprise. “That’s okay. We can take things slow, if you want.”

“I’d rather not. I like things fast,” Jisung insisted.

You laughed. “Well, that can be arranged too. Have you ever had a blowjob?”

The thought of you sucking his cock alone nearly made a cold shudder wreck through Jisung’s body. “Once,” he said, trying to keep his composure. “It was a long time ago.”

“Now, we can’t have that,” you replied, crawling off of him to bring your attention to the very prominent bulge in his pants. You could tell he was big and that thought had you salivating.

Jisung undid his pants hurriedly and tossed them to the ground like they meant nothing, giving you plenty enough time to ruffle through your drawer for something to tie your hair back with.

With your hair out of the way, you patiently sat on your knees as he got just naked enough that you would be able to suck him off. Maybe deep down you had always wanted to. Jisung was exactly the type of guy you were into - the ones that looked away when a pretty girl complimented them and had a beautiful, shy smile.

It didn’t surprise you that his cock was just as veiny as his hands were, but it did make your mouth run dry.

“Sweet Jesus,” you mumbled underneath your breath, knowing that you were in for a treat.

Jisung resisted a smirk. He knew he had a brag-worthy cock that was enough to make any woman lose her everlasting mind, whether she was going down on him or he was going inside her. You were no exception. Matter of fact, all it took was one look before you got a hold of his cock and spat on his pretty tip.

He swore quietly, watching you attentively. There wasn’t even a need to get him hard because he had already stiffened from the way you were kissing him and grinding against his dick, so you got straight to work.

You skipped the slow parts - the teasing bits with your tongue at the tip and base of his cock, and immediately went to the action. Jisung said he liked things fast and so that was exactly what you would give him. And he was going to take it like he’d asked.

“Shit. Shit. Fuck,” he cursed, clutching the sheets. You weren’t wasting any time and he almost couldn’t believe it.

You hadn’t even waited before taking as much of him into your mouth as you could and that made Jisung’s head spin like he was about to explode. And in a way, that wasn’t necessarily untrue. He already knew this was going to be one of his shorter experiences, but definitely one of his better orgasms.

Jisung groaned loudly. It was a shock, because he was one of the quietest boys you’d ever met, so it wasn’t too hard for you to guess that he was currently enjoying himself. The sound of his euphoric noises were making you horny and you could feel your panties getting even wetter.

You wanted to fuck him so bad. It was killing you right now. He was just so perfect; so handsome and cute and easy to provoke. You wanted to draw the most sexy, uncontrollable reactions from him and watch what it did to his little male brain.

Jisung could tell how much you wanted him and it only aroused him more. You were so fucking eager. You were going to town, sucking him off like you were in love with him, like you were worshiping him, and it got him off to an inexplicable extent. He couldn’t even begin to describe how your mouth felt sealed around him like you wanted to suck him completely dry.

You ran your hands up his stomach, up his thighs. He was sensitive in more places than one, your touches making his breath hitch in his throat.

“I’m gonna come,” he warned, knowing he wasn’t going to last much longer. Not with all the stunts you were pulling.

Damn, already, you thought to yourself, wanting to chuckle. Not that you were actually even remotely surprised. You knew what you were doing; you were ruining him and taking a little piece of him to serve as a reminder of your victory.

You didn’t slow down. If anything, you went even faster, your head bobbing up and down his shaft like you wanted to eat him for every meal of every goddamn day. Jisung winced his eyes clothed and accepted his fate, knowing he was merely seconds away from the heat in his stomach unfurling.

With the last piece of his self-control officially waning now that you were sucking his dick like you had something to prove, Jisung involuntarily began thrusting into your mouth, messily fucking your throat with every intention of getting himself off. You let him. At the moment, you were just pleased you’d driven him mad.

And that you knew for sure, because the buildup of ecstasy at short last began to overflow and Jisung couldn’t take it anymore. He gave one final long, deep moan as he released down your throat and clasped your sheets for purchase, convulsing with the effort.

Jisung was shaking. When his eyes finally opened, all he saw was you swallowing his load even though he hadn’t asked you to, and it made him burn from the inside out.

You grinned when he withdrew from your mouth and glanced up to meet his eyes, watching him struggle to find words. “You good?” you asked, shifting on your knees.

Jisung nodded, but that word didn’t even begin to capture the feeling he had inside right now. That was a revolutionary nut. “I… yeah. I’m good.”

Getting up from your knees, you ignored the faint ache in them and asked, “Do you wanna fuck now?”

“God, yes,” Jisung replied in a heartbeat, stroking himself back rigid. It would happen in no time.

When he was hard, he gathered you in his arms and tossed you unceremoniously onto the bed, a gasp escaping your mouth as your back met the mattress. Jisung ordered you to raise your hips, which you did on command, and he slipped your panties from underneath you to throw them wherever his pants were. Still unsatisfied, he tugged at your shirt too until you were completely naked.

The sight of you made him hold his breath. Your smooth skin and supple breasts and kissable tummy. He slipped a hand between your legs, wondering if he should return the favor before he fucked you, but he was surprised by how wet you had gotten from giving him pleasure.

“You really are something else,” he mumbled, running his arousal-slicked fingers over his throbbing dick.

You laughed, debating what to do with your legs, and ultimately deciding on draping them over his broad shoulders. Jisung groaned, having imagined one too many times how your cunt would feel as he pushed in and out of it silkily, and concluding that there was no point in drawing things out, he slipped between your slick folds.

He growled in pleasure immediately, because both the way your pussy welcomed him in with ease and the way it invitingly throbbed around him was making him unravel. It was completely insane. The power you had over him right now was lethal and he couldn’t believe how wet and snug you were just for him.

“Oh, god,” you moaned out, because suddenly your legs on him weren’t enough and you detangled them from his shoulders to wrap around his slim waist instead so that it would be easier to lock your arms around him as well.

It took a long moment for Jisung to will himself to open his eyes, because they had been winced closed since the moment he felt you tightening around him. He looked you in the eyes. “Is this okay?” he asked softly.

You nodded your head. His cock was long and thick and veiny and everything in between. You were in a world between heaven and earth, elevating to the gods and struggling to stay grounded. “It’s perfect, baby. Fuck me just like that.”

Jisung felt dizzy. He knew he had been right in choosing you. It wasn’t every girl that could leave him on the cusp of insanity with both her throat and her pussy, and he was still reeling from the head you’d given him. His whole body was scalding with lust and passion as he reaped pleasure from your body with every labored thrust.

You couldn’t get enough how he felt stroking against your walls and it showed in the way you were kneading and gushing around his cock. The tension in the air was exhilarating, throttling. You grappled his forearms to keep him close, not wanting to be separated when he was fucking you this good.

“Can you say my name?” Jisung asked, his voice thick with desire.

“Jisung,” you called out softly, rolling your hips to meet his thrusts in a perfect sync. You simply couldn’t help yourself. This would be your undoing.

Jisung swore underneath his breath, unable to control the way his stammering hips reacted to the hint of breathlessness in your voice, and smoothed his palms over your beautiful, bare body. He ran his fingers over your cheek, your neck, your chest and your thighs.

He knew he needed to make you come if he cared about not absolutely humiliating himself, because he was going to unravel in a matter of minutes. With that thought, he stuck his hand between your legs and thumbed your clit, asking, “How does that feel?”

You cried out his name again, shuddering with sensitivity. Your heart was hammering in your chest and pounding in your ears and the throbbing between your legs was brutal. If he was trying to finish you, it was working. You couldn’t even bring yourself to answer.

Jisung took that as a sign that you liked it and he continued rubbing the sensitive nub, all the while giving you those long, deep strokes you seemed to be enjoying. You couldn’t breathe through the ecstasy. The way he was stretching you out and bringing you high made you feel as if you could choke.

You trembled beneath him, torn between taking his cock and arching away from the pleasure. “Oh my god. Fuck. I’m gonna come,” you said, feeling the sweat clinging to your skin. If you didn’t know any better, you would think he was lying about being a virgin.

That drew a grunt out of Jisung in anticipation. He didn’t stop touching your clit, didn’t stop stroking your sweet spot. “You gonna come for me?”

You nodded your head vigorously. The rhythm of his thrusts and the relentlessness of his hand between your legs was going to make you see stars. Of that you were certain. Your mouth hung open, gasping for breath, struggling to breathe in the stuffy air.

Then it finally rammed into you like a freight train and you let out a mangled cry of Jisung’s name as you reached your peak. It was the sweetest sound he’d ever heard. You begged for mercy, overcome. Undone. Your face tensed and you throbbed around his cock over and over, your entire body unstill.

When you tried to squirm away from it, Jisung held you securely in his arms so that you had no option but to take the pleasure he was giving you, and everything about it made you feel faint.

He only released you when you went slack against the sheets, the most empty look in your stare as if your soul had been completely snatched from your body, and he couldn’t but moan. God fucking damn.

Jisung kept fucking you through your orgasm, knowing that his was right around the corner, especially with how you had clamped around him like a noose as you came and the soft moans you were making as he tried to get himself off. It was classic mutually assured destruction.

You were hyper aware of the wet sound of his hips smacking into yours echoing out on the walls, even wetter now that you had orgasmed on his cock. Knowing the effect he had on you somehow turned you on. You were still trying to collect yourself after having one hell of an orgasm, throwing your arms around his body again.

“Mm. Jisung, come. I want you to come,” you purred, rubbing your hands down his back.

Jisung was losing his mind. He knew he was a goner the second you said that and thus he begrudgingly withdrew from your soaked pussy, flipped you onto your stomach, and started to stroke himself the rest of the way with his fist.

In a matter of seconds, he was groaning so close to and simultaneously too far from your ear, landing a stripe of his cum on your ass as he winced his eyes closed for the nth time. You looked behind you in time to see his face tensing and his lips parted in a perfect deep moan that had you clenching around nothing.

Jisung dropped beside you like a deadweight and tried to gather his breath. His mind was staggering from the orgasm and the tight feel of your cunt around his cock and he wasn’t going to be capable of thinking straight for the next hour or so.

When you at last willed yourself to move, you brushed the hair out of his face and asked, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Jisung replied, nodding. “Are you?”

“I’m good,” you told him, grinning from ear to ear. You were hoping he wouldn’t leave without your number. The sex was a little too good not to happen again.

Jisung bobbed his head again. He slowly sat up, knowing his head would spin if he got up too fast, and said, “I’m gonna go to the bathroom.”

You hummed in response, watching his back as he grabbed his pants and stepped out of the room.

When he was in the bathroom, Jisung whipped out his phone from the pocket of his pants and texted his group chat.

jisung: just lost my virginity for the 28th time not that i’m counting

mark: lmfaooo how long are these girls gon fall for that shit

jeno: for real, he lies more than jaemin

jaemin: ntm on me. but i’m impressed he’s kept it up for this long

haechan: come on. all he has to do is stutter and they’re like aweeee jisungie wungie is your cock heavy? here let me hold that for you

Jisung rolled his eyes and put his phone away. All he knew was the sex was amazing and he was coming back for seconds; you would be the perfect place to dump his cum before the start of November.

And he wasn’t losing.

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